©HOOL 


FOR 


ILLUSTRATED 


•^ 


1 


SHERIDAN'S  COMEDIES 

THE    RIVALS 

AND 

THE    SCHOOL    FOR    SCANDAL 


EDITED    WITH   AN   INTRODUCTION    AND 
NOTES   TO   EACH    PLAY 


jot 

BY 

BRANDER   MATTHEWS 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  E.  A.  ABBEY,  FRED.  BARNARD,  R.  BLUM, 
C.  S.  REIN  HART,  ETC. 


BOSTON 

JAMES   R.   OSGOOD   AND   COMPANY 
1885 


Copyright,  1884, 
BY  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY. 


All  Rights  Reserved. 


TO 

AUSTIN    DOBSON, 

A  POET  WITH  THE  GIFT  OF  COMEDY, 

THIS   EDITION   OF  SHERIDAN'S    PLAYS 

£s  Enscribclr 

BY    HIS    FRIEND   THE    EDITOR. 


2013923 


PREFACE. 


"To  read  a  good  comedy  is  to  keep  the  best  company  in 
the  world,  where  the  best  things  are  said,  and  the  most  amus- 
ing happen," — so  Hazlitt  tells  us.  Sheridan's  two  great 
comedies  are  seen  on  the  stage  to-day  more  often  than  any 
two  plays  of  any  other  dramatist,  not  excepting  Shakspere  ; 
it  may  be  doubted  whether  even  'Hamlet'  is  acted  more  than 
the  '  School  for  Scandal.'  They  are  read  as  freely  and  fre- 
quently and  with  as  much  pleasure  as  are  the  plays  of  any 
English  dramatist,  with  the  sole  exception  of  Shakspere. 
Neither  the  f  Rivals'  nor  the  r School  for  Scandal'  is  one  of 
the  eighteenth  century  classics,  which,  like  the  Spectator 
and  the  Rambler,  like  'Rasselas'  and  perhaps,  alas!  the 
f  Vicar  of  Wakefield,'  is  taken  on  trust  and  read  by  title 
only,  like  a  bill  before  the  House.  And  yet,  although  they 
bear  their  hundred  years  bravely,  although  they  are  acted 
half  a  thousand  times  in  succession  at  one  theatre,  although 
they  continue  to  come  out  in  new  editions  for  the  table  of 
the  library  and  for  the  pocket  of  the  traveller,  they  have  not 
hitherto  received  the  careful  editing  which  the  classics  of 
the  drama  deserve  and  demand. 


PREFACE. 

To  present  Sheridan's  plays  in  a  pure  text,  with  all  needful 
illustrative  notes,  with  short  introductions  setting  forth  their 
history,  and  with  a  biographical  sketch  of  their  author,  so 
that  the  reader  might  be  provided  with  whatever  is  necessary 
for  the  full  enjoyment  of  these  centenarian  comedies,  —  this 
is  the  object  of  the  present  edition. 

For  the  text,  I  have  followed  that  of  the  edition  of  two 
volumes  octavo  published  in  1821  with  a  preface  by  Moore. 
For  the  brief  biography  of  Sheridan  I  need  say  little:  it  is 
the  result  of  original  research  and  it  contains  few  second- 
hand facts;  but  so  carefully  has  the  ground  been  gleaned  by 
earlier  writers,  that  I  can  claim  as  my  own  by  right  of  dis- 
covery only  the  explanation  of  the  means  whereby  Sheridan 
became  the  owner  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre;  —  and  even  the 
solution  of  this  problem  is  plausible  and  probable  rather  than 
absolutely  certain. 

I  take  pleasure  in  thanking  here,  RICHARD  BRINSLEY 
SHERIDAN,  Esq.,  of  Frampton  Court,  Dorchester,  for  the 
courtesy  and  consideration  with  which  he  allowed  me  to 
examine  the  manuscripts  of  his  grandfather  now  in  his  pos- 
session. My  thanks  are  also  due  to  my  friends  LAURENCE 
HUTTON  and  H.  C.  BUNNER,  for  the  invaluable  aid  the}-  have 
kindly  given  me  in  the  preparation  of  these  pages  for  the 
press. 

B.  M. 

NEW  YORK,  October,  1884. 


CONTENTS. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN    ....  n 

THE  RIVALS. 

INTRODUCTION 61 

AUTHOR'S  PREFACE 79 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS 84 

FIRST  PROLOGUE  :   BY  THE  AUTHOR 85 

SECOND  PROLOGUE  :   BY  THE  AUTHOR 87 

THE  RIVALS  :   A  COMEDY 89 

EPILOGUE  :   BY  THE  AUTHOR 184 

THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

INTRODUCTION 187 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS 206 

A  PORTRAIT:   ADDRESSED  TO  MRS.  CREWE.     BY  R.  B.  SHERI- 
DAN, ESQ 207 

PROLOGUE:    BY  MR.  GARRICK 211 

THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL  :   A  COMEDY 213 

EPILOGUE:   BY  MR.  COLMAN 315 

NOTES 319 


LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


i.    RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN Frontispiece 

Etched  by  M.  Richeton,  from  a  portrait  by  John  Russell,  R.  A. 


2.    VIGNETTE  DRAWN  BY  R.  BRENNAN 


3.  FAC-SIMILE    OF    AUTOGRAPH    LETTER    OF    RICHARD    BRINSLEY 

SHERIDAN Face  page      56 

4.  VIGNETTE  DRAWN  BY  R.  BRENNAN 62 

5.  MR.  JOSEPH  JEFFERSON  AS  BOB  ACRES   ....       Face  page      62 

Drawn  by  R.  Blum,  from  a  photograph  by  Sarony.     Engraved  by  the  Photo- 
Electro  Company. 

6.  MRS.  JOHN  DREW  AS  MRS.  MALAPROP      ....    Face  page    148 

Drawn  by  R.  Blum,  from  a  photograph  by  Sarony.     Engraved  by  the  Photo- 
Electro  Company. 

7.  MR.  JOHN  BROUGHAM  AS  SIR  Lucius  O' TRIGGER.    Face  page    174 

Drawn  from  life  by  C.  S.  Reinhart.     Engraved  by  E.  Heinemann. 

8.  VIGNETTE  DRAWN  BY  G.  R.  HALM 188 

9.  MR.  JOHN  GILBERT  AS  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE  .     .     .    Face  page    212 

Drawn  from  life  by  E.  A.  Abbey.     Engraved  by  J.  H.  E.  Whitney. 

10.    MR.  CHARLES  COGHLAN  AS  CHARLES  SURFACE.     .    Face  page    258 

Drawn  from  life  by  E.  A.  Abbey.     Engraved  by  J.  P.  Davis. 

9 


10  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

ii.    THE  FAMILY  PICTURES Face  page    268 

Frontispiece  to  the  original   edition  of  the  '  School  for  Scandal/     Dublin : 
1785.     Reproduced  by  the  Lewis  Engraving  Company. 

j  Miss  ELLEN  TERRY  AS  LADY  TEAZLE    •  •  \ 
(MR.  HENRY  IRVING  AS  JOSEPH  SURFACE,  j 

Drawn  from   life  by   Fred.    Barnard.      Engraved   by   the   Photo-Engraving 
Company. 

13.    MRS.  G.  H.  GILBERT  AS  MRS.  CANDOUR  ....     Fate  page    296 

Drawn  from  life  by  E.  A.  Abbey.     Engraved  by  Miss  C.  A.  Powell. 


[The  editor  desires  to  thank  the  Century  Company  for  the  loan  of  the  emblematic  vignettes  by 
R.  BKENNAN  and  G.  R.  HALM,  pp.  12,  62,  and  iSS.] 


RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 


RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 


TJICHARD  BRINSLEY  BUTLER  SHERIDAN,  dramatist, 
orator,  and  wit,  was  born  at  No.  12  Dorset  Street,  Dublin, 
Ireland,  in  September,  1751.  He  died  in  Saville  Row,  London, 
England,  July  7,  1816,  and  was  buried  in  the  Poet's  Corner  of  West- 
minster Abbey. 

"  Most  men,"  says  Saint  Beuve,  "  have  not  read  those  whom  they 
judge ;  they  have  a  ready-made  opinion  got  by  word  of  mouth,  one 
scarcely  knows  how."  No  one  has  suffered  more  from  these  off-hand 
judgments  than  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan.  A  ready-made  opinion 
of  a  man  who  found  so  many  and  such  various  means  of  expressing 
•  himself,  an  opinion  got  by  word  of  mouth,  one  hardly  knows  how, 
can  scarcely  be  other  than  unjust.  The  case  against  Sheridan,  as  a 
man  of  letters,  may  be  briefly  stated.  It  is  substantially,  that  he 
stole  the  characters  and  the  plots  of  his  plays,  that  he  pilfered  the 
points  of  his  speeches,  and  that  he  prepared  his  jokes  in  advance, 
appropriating  to  his  own  use  any  jest  he  found  ready  to  his  hand. 
The  counsel  for  the  prosecution  got  access  to  an  English  review  a 
few  years  ago,  and  declared  with  forensic  emphasis  that  Sheridan 
was  "a  plodding  and  heavy  Beaumarchais,  with  all  the  tricks,  but 
without  the  genuine  brightness  and  originality  of  the  Frenchman." 

13 


14  RICHARD    BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN. 

When  one  reads  a  solemn  statement  like  this,  the  question  forms 
itself  of  its  own  accord  :  Was  he  really  plodding  and  heavy  and 
without  brightness  ?  Had  he  no  originality  of  his  own  ?  Was  he  a 
wit,  or  had  he  none  ?  To  a  question  put  thus  bluntly  the  answer  is 
easy.  Sheridan  was  a  wit ;  and  he  was  but  little  else.  As  far  as 
mere  wit  could  carry  him,  Sheridan  went,  and  but  little  further.  He 
had  wit  raised  to  the  zenith,  and  he  could  bend  it  to  his  bidding.  In 
his  early  youth  poetry  of  the  Pope  period  was  in  fashion;  Sheridan 
set  his  wits  to  work  and  brought  forth  Papal  verse,  quite  as  infallible 
as  any  made  in  his  time.  A  little  later  he  saw  that  through  the  stage- 
door  lay  the  shortest  way  to  fame  and  fortune ;  and  he  wrote  plays 
brimful  of  a  wit  which  even  now,  after  the  lapse  of  a  century  and 
more,  is  well  nigh  as  fresh  as  when  it  was  first  penned.  When  in 
after  years  he  went  to  Parliament  and  needs  must  be  an  orator,  again 
his  wit  was  equal  to  the  task,  and  he  delivered  orations  which  the 
great  speakers,  in  that  time  of  great  speakers,  declared  to  be  unsur- 
passed. Had  any  other  call  been  made  on  his  wits,  they  would  have 
done  their  best,  and  their  best  would  have  been  good  indeed.  What- 
ever he  produced,  poem,  or  play,  or  speech,  was  but  the  chameleon 
expression  of  his  wit.  If  in  intellectual  quality  any  of  his  work  was 
thin,  in  quantity  it  was  full  beyond  all  cavil.  No  one  ever  more  truly 
—  to  use  the  phrase  with  no  invidious  intent  —  no  one  ever  more 
truly  lived  on  his  wits  than  Sheridan,  not  even  the  arch  wit,  M.  de 
Voltaire,  or  the  Caron  de  Beaumarchais  to  whom  the  stolid  British 
reviewer  deemed  him  inferior. 

I. 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan  was  the  son  of  Thomas  and  Frances 
Sheridan,  and  the  grandson  of  Dr.  Sheridan,  the  friend  and  corre- 
spondent of  Swift.  Thomas  Sheridan  was  a  teacher  of  elocution,  a 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  15 

"player,  a  manager,  a  lexicographer,  and  altogether  an  odd  character. 
He  thought  himself  a  greater  actor  than  David  Garrick,  and  the 
author  of  a  better  dictionary  than  Samuel  Johnson's.  He  seems 
to  have  had  no  great  love  for  Richard  Brinsley,  and  to  have 
given  him  little  care.  Frances  Sheridan  was  a  woman  of  singular 
gifts  and  singular  charm.  Garrick  and  Johnson  liked  her,  although 
they  did  not  like  her  husband;  and  they  appreciated  her  remarkable 
literary  merits.  Garrick  brought  out  and  acted  in  the  '  Discovery/ 
a  comedy  of  her's;  and  Dr.  Johnson  praised  her  novel,  the  'Memoirs 
of  Miss  Sidney  Biddulph,'  saying  he  knew  not  if  she  had  a  right, 
on  moral  principles,  to  make  her  readers  suffer  so  much.  It  can 
scarcely  be  doubted  that  her  influence  upon  her  son's  character 
would  have  been  highly  beneficial,  but  unfortunately  he  was  not 
always  with  her,  and  she  died  in  1766,  when  he  was  only  fifteen 
years  old.  The  absence  of  parental  care  left  a  fatal  impress  on  his 
character,  and  it  is  to  his  unregulated  youth  that  we  may  ascribe 
most  of  the  wanderings,  the  mis-steps,  and  the  mishaps  of  his 
manhood. 

When  Sheridan  was  seven  years  of  age  he  was  placed  at  school 
with  Mr.  Thomas  Whyte,  who  was  afterward  the  teacher  of  Sheri- 
dan's biographer,  Moore.  Here  he  was  considered  a  dunce.  The 
next  year,  in  1759,  they  removed  to  England;  and  in  1762  Richard 
Brinsley  was  sent  to  Harrow,  where  he  remained  for  about  three 
years,  unwillingly  picking  up  such  crumbs  of  learning  as  might 
suffice  to  sustain  life.  He  was  popular  with  his  school-fellows,  and 
his  teachers  believed  in  his  ability  despite  his  deficient  scholarship. 
He  showed  already  the  indolence  which  was  always  one  of  his  most 
marked  characteristics,  and  which  he  possessed  in  conjunction, 
curiously  enough,  with  an  extraordinary  power  of  application  when- 
ever he  was  aroused  by  an  adequate  motive.  He  seems  to  have 


1 6  RICHARD    BRIXSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

acquired  some  understanding  of  Latin  and  Greek.  He  formed  many 
friendships  at  Harrow.  The  chief  partner  of  his  youthful  sports 
and  studies  was  Nathaniel  Brassey  Halhed,  with  whom  he  translated 
the  seventh  idyl  of  Theocritus  and  many  of  the  minor  poems 
credited  to  that  "  singer  of  the  field  and  fold." 

In  1769  the  elder  Sheridan  returned  to  London  from  France  with 
his  favorite  son,  Charles ;  and  calling  Richard  to  his  side,  he  began 
to  instruct  both  boys  in  English  grammar  and  in  oratory.  "  They 
attended  also  the  fencing  and  riding  schools  of  Mr.  Angelo,"  who 
has  recorded  the  fretful  dignity  of  Thomas  Sheridan,  and  the  genial- 
ity and  good  humor  of  his  younger  son.  In  the  middle, of  1770  the 
Sheridans  moved  to  Bath,  a  hot-bed  of  fast  and  fashionable  society, 
and  about  as  unsuitable  and  unwholesome  a  place  as  could  be  imag- 
ined for  a  young  man  of  eighteen  with  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan's 
lack  of  training  and  want  of  prospects.  He  kept  up  a  lively  corres- 
pondence with  Halhed,  who  was  then  at  Oxford.  The  friends  were 
ambitious  and  hopeful ;  and  they  determined  to  attempt  literature 
together,  fondly  dreaming  that  they  might  awake  one  morning  and 
find  themselves  famous.  They  planned  a  play  and  a  periodical 
paper;  Halhed  wrote  most  of  the  former,  and  Sheridan  sketched 
out  the  only  number  of  the  latter  which  Moore  could  discover. 
Then  they  attempted  a  metrical  version  of  the  love-epistles  credited 
to  the  Greek  sophist,  Aristaenetus.  It  is  to  be  noted  that  Le  Sage 
also  began  his  literary  life  by  translating  Aristcenetus.  In  Novem- 
ber, 1770,  Halhed  had  done  his  share  of  this;  it  was  not  until 
December  that  Sheridan,  in  his  usual  dilatory  way,  set  about  his 
task,  aided  by  a  Greek  dictionary.  There  is  a  French  version  (Poic- 
tiers,  1597),  but  Sheridan  had  not  gone  to  France  in  1764  with  the 
family,  and  he  knew  little  French,  and  came  in  time  to  hate  the 
language.  He  took  several  months  over  his  work,  and  though 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  I/ 

the  completed  manuscript  was  to  have  been  given  to  the  publisher 
in  March,  it  was  not  received  by  him  until  May  ;  and  it  was  only  in 
August,  1771,  that  there  appeared  for  sale  "The  Love  Epistles  of 
Aristenetus,  Translated  from  the  Greek  into  English  metre." 

•  "Love  refines 

The  thoughts,  and  heart  enlarges ;  hath  his  seat 

In  reason,  and  is  judicious."  —  MILT.  Par.  Lost,  B.  8. 

"London:  Printed  for  J.  Wilkie,  No.  71  St.  Paul's  Churchyard.     MDCCLXXI." 

The  quotation  from  Milton  we  may  credit  to  Sheridan  ;  it  is 
impudently  humorous  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  know  how  light  and 
lively  are  some  of  the  love-passages  related  by  the  Greek  tale-teller. 
The  translation  was  anonymous,  and  the  preface  was  signed  with  the 
joint  initials  of  the  young  poets,  H.  S.  It  is  highly  comic  to 
read  that  one  of  the  reviews  fathered  it  on  "  Mr.  Johnson,  author  of 
the  English  Dictionary,  etc."  Moore  and  Sheridan's  other  biogra- 
phers agree  in  calling  the  translation  a  failure  in  that  it  met  with  no 
favor  from  the  public.  It  may  be  that  the  authors  made  no  money 
by  it ;  but  it  succeeded  at  least  in  getting  itself  into  a  second  edition, 
which  does  not  look  exactly  like  flat  failure.  It  has  since  been 
reprinted  with  Propertius,  Petronius  Arbiter,  and  Johannes  Secun- 
dus,  in  a  volume  of  Bohn's  Classical  Library.  Halhed  soon  after 
went  to  India,  where  he  wrote  a  volume  of  imitations  of  Martial, 
and  began  to  be  known  as  a  distinguished  Orientalist.  Two  original 
poems  of  Sheridan's  were  published  in  the  Bath  Chronicle  during 
this  year.  One  was  a  description  of  the  principal  beauties  of  Bath, 
called  '  Clio's  Protest ;  or  the  Picture  Varnished,'  being  an  answer 
to  some  verses  called  the  '  Bath  Picture  ; '  and  the  second  was  a 
humorous  description  of  the  opening  of  the  new  Assembly  Rooms, 
'  An  Epistle  from  Timothy  Screw,  to  his  brother  Henry,  Waiter  at 
Almack's.' 


1 8  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAX. 

There  was  at  Bath  at  this  time  a  family  of  Linleys,  all  musicians 
of  marked  ability.  The  eldest  daughter,  Miss  Elizabeth  Linley,  was 
as  beautiful  to  see  as  to  hear.  She  was  between  sixteen  and  seven- 
teen when  Sheridan  first  met  her.  She  was  sought  by  many  suitors, 
good  and  evil,  young  and  old.  Among  them  were  Sheridan's  elder 
brother  Charles,  Halhed,  a  Mr.  Long,  to  whom  her  parents  engaged 
her,  and  a  Captain  Mathevvs,  who  happened  to  have  a  wife  already. 
Charles  Sheridan  gave  up  the  struggle  and  wrote  Miss  Linley  a 
letter  of  farewell.  Halhed  soon  sailed  for  India.  To  Mr.  Long  she 
secretly  represented  that  she  could  never  be  happy  as  his  wife,  and 
he  magnanimously  took  on  himself  the  blame  of  breaking  off  the 
match  and  appeased  her  parents  by  settling  three  thousand  pounds 
on  her.  Captain  Mathews  was  not  as  generous  or  as  readily  got  rid 
of ;  he  persecuted  her  incessantly ;  until  at  last  she  confided  in  Sheri- 
dan, who  expostulated  in  vain  with  the  married  rake.  To  avoid  him 
she  resolved  to  take  refuge  in  a  convent  in  France  :  this  was  early 
in  1772.  Sheridan  offered  to  accompany  her;  and  when  they  had 
reached  France  he  persuaded  her  to  marry  him.  After  the  idle 
ceremony  he  placed  her  in  a  convent  at  Lisle,  where  she  fell  sick, 
and  where  her  father  found  her. 

It  was  known  at  Bath  that  Miss  Linley  and  Sheridan  had  dis- 
appeared together;  one  rumor  had  it  that  they  had  "set  off  on  a 
matrimonial  expedition  to  Scotland."  The  baffled  Captain  Mathews 
blustered  boldly  during  Sheridan's  absence,  and  even  published  an 
abusive  advertisement.  When  Sheridan  returned  to  England  with 
Miss  Linley  and  her  father,  he  called  Mathews  out  at  once.  The 
elder  Angelo  had  instructed  Sheridan  in  "the  use  of  the  small 
sword,  and  it  was  in  consequence  of  the  skill  acquired  under 
this  tuition  that  he  acquitted  himself  with  so  much  address  when 
opposed  to  the  captain,  whose  reputation  was  well  known  in  the 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  19 

circles  of  fashion  as  an  experienced  swordsman."  Despite  this  repu- 
tation, Captain  Mathews  seems  to  have  been  a  coward  as  well  as  a 
bully.  At  first  he  dodged  the  duel ;  and  when  it  was  fought  he 
begged  his  life  and  wrote  an  ample  apology.  Immediately  after  he 
lied  about  the  affair.  At  last  things  were  so  hot  around  about 
him,  that  he  was  constrained  to  challenge  Sheridan  to  a  second 
meeting,  at  which  Sheridan  was  badly  wounded.  Angelo  notes  that 
Mathews  had  learned  fencing  in  France  and  was  considered  very 
skilful;  and  he  recollected  "Dick  Sheridan  (his  appellation  then) 
shewing  me  a  wound  in  his  neck,  then  in  a  sore  state,  which  he  told 
me  he  had  received  from  his  antagonist  on  the  ground."  Plainly 
enough  Mathews  had  the  best  of  the  second  duel,  although  Sheri- 
dan's courage  was  beyond  question,  and  he  refused  to  beg  his  life. 
After  his  recovery  he  was  sent  into  the  country,  where  he  remained 
until  the  spring  of  the  next  year,  1773.  During  all  this  time  his 
father  and  Miss  Linley's  were  determined  to  keep  them  apart. 
Moore  tells  us,  that  Sheridan  contrived  many  stratagems  "  for  the 
purpose  of  exchanging  a  few  words  with  her,  and  that  he  more  than 
once  disguised  himself  as  a  hackney-coachman,  and  drove  her  home 
from  the  theatre,"  where  she  had  been  singing.  At  last  Mr.  Linley 
yielded,  and  they  were  married  by  license,  April  13,  1773,  after  a 
courtship  as  romantic  in  its  vicissitudes  as  Miss  Lydia  Languish  or 
Miss  BlancJic  Amory  could  possibly  wish. 

Mrs.  Sheridan  was  perhaps  the  most  gifted  of  a  gifted  family. 
Dr.  Burney  refers  to  the  Linleys  "  as  a  nest  of  singing-birds " ;  and 
Michael  Kelly  records  that  Mozart  spoke  in  high  terms  of  the 
talents  of  Mrs.  Sheridan's  brother.  Her  services  were  in  good 
demand  as  a  singer  of  oratorios,  and  might  have  been  rewarded 
sufficiently  to  support  the  young  couple  in  ease,  if  not  in  affluence. 
But  Sheridan  was  not  a  man  to  live  at  his  wife's  apron-strings,  or  to 


20  RICHARD  BRIXSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

grow  fat  on  the  money  she  earned.  With  manly  pride  he  refused  all 
offers,  and  declined  even  to  allow  her  to  fulfil  the  engagements  made 
for  her  by  her  father  before  the  marriage.  This  was  honorable  and 
high-minded,  but  it  deprived  them  of  a  certain  income.  Dr.  Johnson's 
praise  might  please  Sheridan's  heart,  —  if  it  was  reported  to  him, — 
but  it  could  not  fill  his  stomach.  With  abundant  belief  in  himself, 
Sheridan  meant  to  make  his  own  way  in  the  world  and  to  owe  his 
support  to  his  own  hand.  He  had  nothing,  not  even  a  serious 
education.  He  had  been  entered  a  student  of  the  Middle  Temple 
just  before  his  marriage,  but  he  had  not  pursued  the  law  further. 
Without  money,  and  without  a  profession,  but  with  a  full  confidence 
in  himself,  and  a  hereditary  connection  with  the  theatre,  it  is  no 
wonder  that  Sheridan  determined  to  write  for  the  stage.  His  father 
was  an  actor  and  a  manager,  and  had  written  one  play ;  and  his 
mother  had  written  several.  With  these  antecedents  and  the  repu- 
tation of  ability  which  he  had  already  achieved  somehow,  he  was 
asked  by  Harris,  the  manager  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  to  write  a 
comedy. 

II. 

The  time  was  most  propitious  for  the  appearance  of  a  new  comic 
author.  The  works  of  Wycherley,  Vanbrugh,  Farquhar,  and  Con- 
greve,  were  falling,  or  had  already  fallen,  out  of  the  list  of  acting 
plays.  Evelina  blushed  at  the  dialogue  of  Congreve's  «  Love  for 
Love,'  and  was  ashamed  at  the  plot.  Only  Sheridan  himself 
could  make  Vanbrugh's  '  Relapse '  presentable.  Farquhar  and 
Wycherley  fared  but  little  better,  though  the  'Country  Wife'  of 
the  latter,  deodorized  into  something  like  decency  by  the  skilful 
touch  of  Garrick,  retained  sufficient  vitality  to  linger  on  the  stage, 
under  the  name  of  the  '  Country  Girl,'  until  the  end  of  the  century. 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  21 

There  were  many  symptoms  of  a  rapid  improvement  in  virtue  and  of 
an  evolution  in  morals,  and  this  helped  to  make  the  way  straight 
before  the  feet  of  a  new  dramatist  who  could  keep  his  eye  on  the 
signs  of  the  times.  The  comedies  of  Congreve  and  Wycherley,  Far- 
quhar  and  Vanbrugh,  seem  to  have  been  written  to  show  that  the 
true  road  to  happiness  was  to  hate  your  neighbor  and  to  love  your 
neighbor's  wife.  Sydney  Smith  said  that  their  morality  was  "that 
every  witty  man  may  transgress  the  seventh  commandment,  which 
was  never  meant  for  the  protection  of  husbands  who  labor  under 
the  incapacity  of  making  repartees."  M.  Taine,  with  all  his  French 
tolerance  for  wit,  is  disgusted  with  the  indecency  of  the  comic 
writers  of  the  Restoration,  and  says,  "  We  hold  our  nose  and  read 
on."  These  old-fashioned  plays  were  beginning  to  be  unpalatable 
to  a  new-fangled  taste.  The  times  were  ripe  for  a  new  writer. 

Few  of  the  dramatists  of  the  day  were  formidable  rivals.  The 
one  man  who  might  have  been  a  competitor  to  be  feared,  a  fellow- 
Irishman —  for,  as  Latin  comedy  was  imitated  from  the  Greek,  and 
as  French  comedy  was  modelled  upon  the  Italian,  so  English  comedy 
has  in  great  part  been  written  by  Irishmen  —  the  author  of 
the  'Good-natured  Man,'  Oliver  Goldsmith,  died  in  1774.  'She 
Stoops  to  Conquer,'  produced  the  year  before,  had  scotched  senti- 
mental comedy,  an  imported  French  fashion,  which  was  slowly 
strangling  the  life  out  of  the  comic  muse ;  and  although  Sheridan, 
in  the  '  Rivals,'  might  choose  to  do  obeisance  to  this  passing  fancy 
by  the  introduction  of  those  two  most  tedious  persons,  Faulkland  and 
Julia,  he  was  soon  to  repent  him  of  his  sins,  an:l  in  the  '  School  for 
Scandal'  deal  it  a  final  and  fatal  blow.  Cumberland,  the  sole  survivor 
of  the  school,  had  but  little  life  left  in  him  after  the  appearance  of  the 
'  Critic' ;  and  no  life  is  now  left  in  his  plays,  which  have  hardly  seen 
the  light  of  the  lamps  these  fifty  years.  Better  luck  has  attended 


22  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

the  more  worthy  work  of  George  Colman  the  elder,  the  author  of 
the  'Jealous  Wife,'  and  of  David  Garrick,  the  author  probably  of 
'  High  Life  Below  Stairs,'  who  had  also  collaborated  in  the  '  Clandes- 
tine Marriage ' ;  these  three  plays  keep  the  stage  to  this  day.  But 
in  1775  both  Colman  and  Garrick  had  ceased  to  write  for  the  thea- 
tre. The  coarse,  vigorous,  hardy  satires  of  Samuel  Foote,  and  the 
namby-pamby  tragedies  and  wishy-washy  comedies  —  '•  not  transla- 
tions only,  taken  from  the  French" — of  Arthur  Murphy,  were  alike 
beginning  to  pall  upon  playgoers.  Among  all  these  dramatists, 
and  greater  than  any  of  them,  appeared  the  author  of  the  '  Rivals.' 
Although  written  hastily  at  the  request  of  Harris,  the  manager  of 
Covent  Garden  Theatre,  the  *  Rivals '  was  not  wholly  a  new  compo- 
sition ;  it  is  rather  an  elaboration  of  earlier  sketches  and  inchoate 
memorandums  jotted  down  by  Sheridan  at  various  times  after  he  was 
seventeen  years  old,  when  the  hope  of  gaining  independence  by 
writing  for  the  stage  first  flitted  before  his  eyes.  And  this  rework- 
ing of  accumulated  old  material  was  characteristic  of  Sheridan 
throughout  life,  and  in  whatever  department  of  literature  he  might 
venture  himself.  His  poems,  his  plays,  his  jests,  and  his  speeches 
abound  in  phrases  and  suggestions  set  down  years  before.  Sheri- 
dan must  needs  have  had  aid  from  earlier  work,  since  we  find  him 
telling  his  father-in-law,  November  17,  1774,  that  he  would  have  the 
comedy  in  rehearsal  in  a  few  days,  and  that  he  had  not  written  a 
line  of  it  two  months  before,  "  except  a  scene  or  two,  which  I  believe 
you  have  seen  in  an  odd  act  of  a  little  farce."  Haste  of  composi- 
tion is  shown  in  the  inordinate  bulk  of  the  play,  which  was  at  least 
double  the  length  of  any  acting  comedy  —  so  Sheridan  tells  us  in 
the  preface  —  when  he  put  it  into  Harris's  hands.  "I  profited  by 
his  judgment  and  experience  in  the  curtailing  of  it,  till,  I  believe,  his 
feeling  for  the  vanity  of  a  young  author  got  the  better  of  his  desire 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  23 

for  correctness,  and  he  left  many  excrescences  remaining  because 
he  had  assisted  in  pruning  so  many  more.  Hence,  though  I  was 
not  uninformed  that  the  acts  were  still  too  long,  I  flattered  myself 
that,  after  the  first  trial,  I  might  with  safer  judgment  proceed  to 
remove  what  should  appear  to  have  been  most  dissatisfactory." 

The  '  Rivals '  was  first  acted  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre  on 
the  evening  of  January  17,  1775,  and  it  was  damned  out  of  hand. 
It  was  repeated  the  next  night,  and  then  withdrawn  for  repairs.  A 
change  of  front  in  the  face  of  the  enemy  is  always  a  risky  experi- 
ment, but  Sheridan  operated  it  successfully.  Lightened  of  the 
feebler  scenes  by  condensation,  and  strengthened  by  the  substitution 
of  Clinch  as  Sir  Lucius  O1  Trigger  for  Lee,  who  had  acted  the  part 
very  badly,  the  '  Rivals '  was  again  offered  to  the  public,  and  was 
acted  fourteen  or  fifteen  times  before  the  season  closed  on  June  ist. 
On  the  tenth  night  a  new  prologue  was  spoken  by  Mrs.  Bulkley, 
in  which  Sheridan  made  adroit  use  of  the  figures  of  Comedy  and 
Tragedy,  which  stood  on  each  side  of  the  stage,  and  defended  his 
use  of  broader  comic  effects  than  the  partisans  of  sentimental 
comedy  could  tolerate.  After  the  first  few  nights,  however,  the 
'  Rivals '  picked  up  and  held  its  own.  Its  brisk  and  bristling  action, 
its  highly  ingenious  equivoque,  its  broadly  limned  and  sharply  con- 
trasted characters,  its  close  sequence  of  highly  comic  situations  — 
all  these  soon  began  to  tell  with  the  public,  and  the  piece  became 
one  of  the  first  favorites  of  the  play-goer. 

As  Goldsmith  had  shown  his  gratitude  to  Quick,  who  acted  Tony 
Lumpkin  to  his  satisfaction;  by  signing  the  'Grumbler,' an  adapta- 
tion of  the  'Grondeur'  of  Brueys,  acted  for  Quick's  benefit,  so 
Sheridan,  in  gratitude  to  Clinch,  who  had  bravely  lent  his  aid  to 
pluck  the  flower  success  from  the  nettle  danger,  wrote  '  St.  Patrick's 
Day ;  or  the  Scheming  Lieutenant,'  a  farce  in  two  acts,  produced  for 


24  RICHARD  B KINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

Clinch's  benefit,  May  2,  1775,  and  acted  six  times  before  the  close  of 
the  season  at  the  end  of  the  month.  '  St.  Patrick's  Day '  is  a  lively 
enough  little  play,  of  no  great  consequence  or  merit,  owing  some- 
thing in  the  conduct  of  its  plot  and  the  comicality  of  its  situations 
to  Moliere,  and  containing  only  a  few  of  the  brilliant  flashes  of  wit 
which  we  are  wont  to  consider  as  Sheridan's  especial  property. 

Sheridan  devoted  the  summer  to  the  writing  of  a  comic  opera,  the 
music  for  which  was  selected  and  composed  by  his  father-in-law,  Mr. 
Linley.  "We  owe  to  Gay,"  said  Dr.  Johnson,  "the  ballad-opera  —  a 
mode  of  comedy  which  at  first  was  supposed  to  delight  only  by  its 
novelty,  but  has  now,  by  the  experience  of  half  a  century,  been  so 
well  accommodated  to  the  disposition  of  a  popular  audience  that  it  is 
likely  to  keep  long  possession  of  the  stage."  And  of  all  ballad- 
operas,  Gay's  first  was  easily  the  foremost  until  this  of  Sheridan's  ; 
the  '  Beggar's  Opera '  had  no  real  rival  until  the  production  of  the 
'  Duenna.'  While,  however,  the  '  Beggar's  Opera '  owed  part  of  its 
extraordinary  vogue  to  its  personal  and  political  satire,  the  '  Duenna ' 
had  no  political  purport ;  its  only  aim  was  to  please,  and  in  this  it 
succeeded  abundantly.  Brought  out  originally  at  Covent  Garden 
on  November  21,  1775,  it  was  performed  seventy-five  times  during 
the  ensuing  season  —  an  extraordinary  number  in  those  days  — 
twelve  more  than  the  'Beggar's  Opera'  had  achieved.  In  order  to 
counteract  this  great  success  of  the  rival  house,  Garrick,  then  the 
manager  of  Drury  Lane,  as  Moore  tells  us,  "  found  it  necessary  to 
bring  forward  all  the  weight  of  his  own  best  characters,  and  even 
had  recourse  to  the  expedient  of  playing  off  the  mother  against  the 
son,  by  reviving  Mrs.  Frances  Sheridan's  comedy  of  the  '  Discovery,' 
and  acting  the  principal  part  in  it  himself.  In  allusion  to  the 
increased  fatigue  which  this  competition  with  the  '  Duenna  '  brought 
upon  Garrick,  who  was  then  entering  on  his  sixtieth  year,  it  was  said 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  25 

by  an  actor  of  the  day  that  '  the  old  woman  would  be  the  death  of 
the  old  man."'  The  success  of  Sheridan's  opera  was  not  confined  to 
one  season ;  it  lasted  nearly  fifty  years. 

The  plot,  suggested  perhaps  by  an  episode  in  the  '  Country  Wife ' 
of  Wycherley,  or  perhaps  by  the  '  Sicilien '  of  Moliere,  and  not  owing 
very  much  to  either  source,  lends  itself  to  several  amusing  scenes  of 
equivoke  and  cross-purpose.  But  the  characters  in  the  'Duenna' 
have  far  less  strength,  as  well  as  far  less  originality,  than  their 
brothers  and  sisters  in  the  'Rivals,'  in  the  '  School  for  Scandal,'  and 
in  the  'Critic.'  There  is  no  Sir  Anthony  Absolute,  or  Mrs.  Malaprop, 
no  Sir  Peter  or  Lady  Teazle,  no  Mr.  Puff  or  Sir  Fretful  Plagiary  ; 
there  is  for  the  most  part  nothing  but  half  a  dozen  of  the  usual 
types  —  the  young  lover,  the  romantic  girl,  the  jealous  rival,  the  lively 
coquette,  the  arbitrary  father,  the  intriguing  old  woman.  Among  all 
these,  the  character  of  the  little  Portuguese  Jew,  Isaac  Mendoza, 
stands  out  in  bold  relief  as  the  only  figure  in  the  play  really  worthy 
of  its  illustrious  authorship.  He  is  knavish,  and  always  overreaches 
himself;  like  Dickens's  Joey  Bagstock,  who  was  "sly,  devilish  sly, 
sir,"  he  is  "a  cunning  dog,  ain't  I?  A  sly  little  villain,  eh?  ... 
Roguish,  you'll  say,  but  keen,  hey?  — Devilish  keen?"  Did 
Dickens,  who  wrote  a  comic  opera  at  the  very  beginning  of  his 
literary  career,  —  did  Dickens  remember  this  passage,  I  wonder  ? 

Not  only  in  the  drawing  of  character,  but  also  in  dialogue,  is  the 
'Duenna'  inferior  to  Sheridan's  better-known  plays.  In  spite  of  all 
its  brightness  and  lightness,  it  is  impossible  not  to  acknowledge  that 
it  does  not  contain  his  best  work.  It  has  few  specimens  of  the 
recondite  wit  and  quaint  fancy  which  make  the  '  School  for  Scandal ' 
so  brilliant  and  unequalled  a  comedy.  If  Sheridan's  wit,  like  quick- 
silver, is  always  glistening,  perhaps  at  times,  like  mercury,  it  seems  a 
little  heavy.  Now  and  again  the  dialogue  vies  in  sparkle  and  point 


26  P.ICHARD  BRIXSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

with  the  talk  of  its  author's  other  plays,  but  not  as  often  as  might 
be  wished.  It  seems  hastier,  at  once  less  happy  and  less  polished. 
One  thing  to  be  remarked  about  all  of  Sheridan's  plays  is  that 
the  dialogue  is  easy  to  speak.  The  son  of  an  elocutionist  and 
lecturer  and  himself  an  orator,  Sheridan  worked  his  words  until 
they  fell  trippingly  from  the  tongue.  And  the  songs  in  the  'Duenna' 
have  a  quality  not  as  common  as  might  be  thought ;  they  are  all 
singable.  The  words  of  many  songs  and  especially  of  many  modern 
songs,  are  so  loaded  with  harsh  consonants  and  combinations  of 
consonants,  and  with  sounds  which  shut  instead  of  opening  the 
mouth,  that  they  are  very  difficult  to  sing.  But  the  songs  of  the 
'  Duenna,'  like  the  songs  of  all  true  songsters  —  Moore,  for  instance, 
and  Lover,  and  a  few  other  poets  who  have  sung  their  verses  into 
being  —  are  as  easy  to  sing  as  they  are  appropriate  to  music.  And 
they  sang  themselves  at  once  into  popularity.  Moore  refers  to  them 
fifty  years  after  they  were  first  heard  in  public  as  though  they  were 
then  known  to  all  his  readers.  Here  is  one  of  Don  Antonio  s 
songs: — 

"  I  ne'er  could  any  lustre  see 
In  eyes  that  would  not  look  on  me ; 
I  ne'er  saw  nectar  on  a  lip 
But  where  mv  own  did  hope  to  sip. 
Has  the  maid  who  seeks  my  heart 
Cheeks  of  rose,  untouched  by  art, 
I  will  own  the  color  true, 
When  yielding  blushes  aid  their  hue. 

"  Is  her  hand  so  soft  and  pure? 
I  must  press  it  to  be  sure ; 
Nor  can  I  be  certain  then 
Till  it,  grateful,  press  again. 
Must  I  with  attentive  eye 
Watch  her  heaving  bosom  sigh  ? 
I  will  do  so  when  I  see 
That  heaving  bosom  sigh  for  me." 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  2? 

From  the  correspondence  between  Sheridan  and  Linley,  it  is  evi- 
dent that  the  symmetry  and  the  success  of  the  'Duenna'  was  due 
largely  to  the  high  confidence  the  composer  had  in  the  author ;  and 
to  the  perfect  accord  between  them,  Linley  nowhere  seeking  to 
display  himself,  but  only  to  second  Sheridan  as  best  he  might.  In 
an  opera  the  music  should  fit  the  words  as  the  words  fit  the  music, 
until  they  both  seem  to  be  the  result  of  a  single  inspiration  and  to 
have  only  one  body  —  just  as  the  Aztecs,  on  first  beholding  the 
Spanish  troopers,  mistook  horse  and  man  for  a  single  being.  Sheridan 
had  no  voice  ;  he  could  not  sing ;  and  he  knew  nothing  about  music. 
But  he  was  a  born  dramatist,  and  he  had  a  keen  ear  for  what  was 
likely  to  be  most  effective  in  a  given  situation ;  and  Linley  was 
intelligent  enough  to  take  every  hint,  and  to  turn  it  to  best  advan- 
tage. Many  years  after  the  '  Duenna,'  when  Sheridan  brought  out  his 
last  play,  '  Pizarro,'  Michael  Kelly,  was  required  to  compose  the  music 
it  needed,  for  it  was  a  sort  of  melodrama,  in  the  early  sense  of  the 
word  as  well  as  the  later :  and  in  his  reminiscences  Kelly  records  the 
conversation  he  had  with  Sheridan  in  regard  to  it.  "  My  aim  was  to 
discover  the  situations  of  the  different  choruses  and  the  marches, 
and  Mr.  Sheridan's  ideas  on  the  subject ;  and  he  gave  them  in  the 
following  manner  :  '  In  the  Temple  of  the  Sun,'  said  he,  '  I  want  the 
Virgins  of  the  Sun  and  their  High-Priest  to  chant  a  solemn  invoca- 
tion to  their  Deity.'  I  sang  two  or  three  bars  of  music  to  him, 
which  I  thought  corresponded  with  what  he  wished,  and  marked 
them  down.  He  then  made  a  sort  of  rumbling  noise  with  his  voice 
(for  he  had  net  the  smallest  idea  of  turning  a  tune),  resembling  a 
deep,  gruff,  bow,  wow,  wow  ;  but  though  there  was  not  the  slightest 
resemblance  of  an  air  in  the  noise  he  made,  yet  so  clear  were  his 
ideas  of  effect  that  I  perfectly  understood  his  meaning,  though 
conveyed  through  the  medium  of  a  bow,  wow,  wow."  A  story  not 


28  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

unlike  this  is  told  of  Victor  Hugo,  who  is  equally  unmusical  and  who 
outlined  or  hinted  at  the  kind  of  tune  he  needed  for  a  song  in  one 
of  his  plays. 

The  'Rivals,'  'St.  Patrick's  Day,'  and  the  'Duenna,' — a  comedy 
in  five  acts,  a  farce  in  two  acts,  and  a  comic  opera  in  three  acts, — 
were  all  produced  in  the  year  1775  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre. 
Before  the  run  of  the  '  Duenna '  was  ended,  Sheridan  was  in  negotia- 
tion with  Garrick  for  the  purchase,  in  conjunction  with  Linley  and 
Dr.  Ford,  of  the  great  actor's  half  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre.  Although 
Garrick  and  Thomas  Sheridan  were  rival  actors  and  never  exactly 
hit  it  off  together,  the  former  always  had  a  cordial  esteem  for 
Mrs.  Sheridan,  and  he  was  prepared  to  carry  this  over  to  her 
son.  So  when  he  made  up  his  mind  to  give  up  acting  and  to 
abandon  management,  he  was  ready  to  think  well  of  Sheridan's  offer 
to  buy  him  out.  Colman,  to  whom  the  management  was  first  offered, 
would  purchase  solely  on  condition  that  he  could  buy  the  whole ; 
Garrick  was  only  half  owner,  and  young  Lacey,  who  had  the  other 
half,  refused  to  sell.  While  Garrick  was  giving  his  farewell  perform- 
ances, the  negotiations  with  Sheridan  were  pending.  The  great 
actor  —  probably  the  greatest  who  ever  trod  the  stage  —  spoke  his 
last  speech  and  made  his  last  exit  on  June  10,  1776;  and  on  June 
24,  so  Davies  tells  us,  he  signed  the  contract  of  sale  to  Sheridan, 
Linley  and  Ford.  By  twenty-eight  years  of  good  management  the 
value  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre  had  been  trebled,  and  the  selling  price 
was  fixed  at  .£70,000,  or  .£35,000  for  Garrick's  half.  Sheridan  and 
Linley  were  to  find  ,£10,000  each,  and  their  friend  Dr.  Ford  was  to 
supply  the  remaining  £15,000.  Where  Sheridan  raised  the  money 
for  his  share  has  been  one  of  the  mighty  mysteries  of  theatrical 
history.  There  is  a  general  belief  that  he  borrowed  it  —  but  from 
whom  ?  Watkins,  his  first  biographer,  mentions  a  mortgage  to  Dr. 


A    BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  29 

Ford,  and  suggests  that  Garrick  stood  behind  Ford.  Moore,  his 
second  biographer,  disbelieves  in  and  discredits  any  loan  from  either 
Ford  or  Garrick. 

So  far  as  I  know,  nobody  has  yet  cited  the  evidence  of  Sydney 
Smith,  who  said  that  Creevy  told  him  that  once  when  dining  with 
Sheridan,  after  the  ladies  had  departed,  Sheridan  drew  his  chair  to 
the  fire  and  confided  to  Creevy  that  they  had  just  had  a  fortune  left 
to  them.  "  Mrs.  Sheridan  and  I,"  said  he,  "  have  made  the  solemn 
vow  to  each  other  to  mention  it  to  no  one,  and  nothing  induces  me 
now  to  confide  it  to  you  but  the  absolute  conviction  that  Mrs. 
Sheridan  is  at  this  moment  confiding  it  to  Mrs.  Creevy  upstairs." 
Now,  this  may  be  nothing  more  than  the  exaggeration  of  a  humorist 
reported  with  exaggeration  by  another  humorist.  And  then,  again, 
it  may  be  true ;  it  is  not  at  all  impossible,  or  even  improbable,  that  a 
fortune  had  been  left  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  to  Sheridan,  or, 
more  likely,  to  his  wife ;  but  I  have  been  able  to  find  no  other 
reference  to  this  wealth  from  the  skies ;  and  I  fear  the  story  is  not 
to  be  taken  seriously.  The  wonder  as  to  where  Sheridan  got  the 
money  to  pay  for  one-seventh  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre  is  augmented 
and  completed  by  wonder  as  to  how  two  years  or  so  later  he  got 
money  to  buy  out  Lacey's  half  of  the  theatre.  What  was  a  wonder  to 
Sheridan's  contemporaries,  has  been  also  a  wonder  to  all  his  biogra- 
phers. His  later  critics  make  no  attempt  whatever  to  find  an  answer 
to  the  enigma. 

It  is  with  great  diffidence  therefore  that  I  venture  to  express  a 
belief,  that  I  have  plucked  out  the  heart  of  the  mystery :  it  must  be 
admitted,  I  think,  that  I  have  at  least  made  out  a  plausible  case. 
Here,  then,  is  my  explanation  :  Of  the  original  ^£3 5,000  paid  Garrick, 
Sheridan  was  to  find  ;£  10,000.  Dr.  Watkins  asserts  that  he  raised 
^8,700  of  this  ;£  10,000  by  two  mortgages,  one  of  ;£i,ooo  to  a  Mr. 


30  RICHARD  BRIA'SLEY  SHERIDAN. 

Wallis,  and  another  of  £7,700  to  Dr.  Ford.  If  we  accept  this  asser- 
tion,— and  I  can  see  no  reason  why  we  should  not,  —  all  that  Sheridan 
had  to  make  up  was  .£1,300,  a  sum  he  could  easily  compass  after  the 
success  of  the  'Rivals'  and  the  'Duenna/  even  supposing  that  he  did 
not  encroach  on,  or  had  already  exhausted,  the  £3,000  settled  on  his 
wife  by  Mr.  Long.  Before  the  end  of  1776,  dissensions  arose  between 
Sheridan,  Linley  and  Ford,  on  one  side,  and  Lacey  on  the  other, 
in  the  course  of  which  Lacey  sought  to  sell  part  of  his  half  to  two 
friends.  But  these  dissensions  were  ended  in  1778  by  Sheridan's  pur- 
chase of  Lacey's  half.  A  note  in  Sheridan's  handwriting,  quoted  by 
Moore,  says  that  Lacey  was  paid  "a  price  exceeding  £45,000,"  — 
which  would  go  to  show  that  the  total  value  of  the  property  had  risen 
in  two  years  from  £70,000  to  £90,000.  Most  writers  on  the  subject 
have  taken  this  note  of  Sheridan's  to  mean  that  he  paid  at  least 
£45,000  in  cash,  and  they  have  all  exhausted  their  efforts  in  guessing 
where  he  got  the  money.  But  if  we  compare  Moore's  statement  with 
Watkins's,  we  get  nearer  a  solution  of  the  difficulty.  \Vatkins  says 
that  Lacey's  share  was  already  mortgaged  for  £31,500,  and  that 
Sheridan  assumed  this  mortgage,  and  agreed  further  to  pay  in  re- 
turn for  the  equity  of  redemption,  two  annuities  of  £500  each.  This 
double  obligation,  (the  mortgage  for  £31,500  and  the  annuities)  rep- 
resents "a  price  exceeding  £45,000;"  but  it  did  not  call  for  the 
expenditure  of  a  single  penny  in  cash.  On  the  contrary  the  purchase 
of  Lacey's  half  of  the  theatre,  actually  put  money  into  Sheridan's 
pocket,  for  he  at  once  divided  his  original  one-seventh  between  Linley 
and  Dr.  Ford,  making  each  of  their  shares  up  to  one-fourth  ;  and  even 
if  they  paid  him  no  increase  on  the  original  price,  he  would  have  been 
enabled  to  pay  off  the  £8,700  mortgages  to  Dr.  Ford,  and  to  Mr. 
Wallis,  and  to  get  back  the  £1,300  which  he  seems  to  have  advanced 
himself.  In  fact,  it  appears  that  Sheridan  invested  only  £1,300  in 


A    BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  3-1 

cash  when  he  bought  one-seventh  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  in  1776,  and 
that  he  received  this  back  when  he  became  possessed  of  one-half  of 
Drury  Lane  Theatre,  in  1778,  then  valued  at  .£90,000.  Sheridan 
afterward  bought  Dr.  Ford's  one-fourth  for  ;£  17,000;  and  Moore 
found  among  Sheridan's  papers,  letters  of  remonstrance  from  Dr. 
Ford's  son,  indicating  that  this  debt  had  riot  been  paid  promptly. 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan  succeeded  David  Garrick  as  the  man- 
ager of  Drury  Lane  in  the  middle  of  1776.  A  sharp  contrast 
was  at  once  visible  between  the  care  and  frugality  of  the  eld 
management,  and  the  reckless  carelessness  of  the  new.  Garrick 
planned  everything  in  advance  with  the  utmost  skill  and  forethought, 
and  was  never  taken  unawares.  Sheridan  trusted  to  luck  and  to 
prompt  action  on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  The  elder  Sheridan  be- 
came acting  manager,  a  post  for  which  his  somewhat  doubtful  temper 
more  or  less  unfitted  him.  Garrick  continued  to  advise  with  Sheri- 
dan, and  probably  helped  him  in  the  first  important  production  of 
the  new  management,  the  revival  with  judicious  omissions  of  Con- 
greve's  'Old  Bachelor,'  which  had  not  been  acted  for  sixteen  years. 
The  '  Rivals '  originally  performed  at  Covent  Garden,  was  now 
brought  out  at  the  theatre  of  which  its  author  was  manager.  Early 
in  1777,  on  February  24,  Sheridan  produced  his  first  new  play  at  his 
own  house.  This  was  'A  Trip  to  Scarborough,'  and  its  chief  fault 
was  that  it  was  neither  new  nor  Sheridan's,  being  in  fact  a  deodorized 
adaptation  of  Vanbrugh's  'Relapse.'  As  an  incident  in  the  'Country 
Wife '  of  YVycherley  —  whom  Sheridan  denied  ever  having  read  — 
may  have  suggested  a  chief  scene  of  the  '  Duenna,'  and  as  more  than 
one  scene  of  the  forthcoming  '  School  for  Scandal,'  was  to  recall  Con- 
greve,  it  was  only  fair  that  Vanbrugh  should  have  his  turn.  Oddly 
enough,  Farquhar  is  the  only  one  of  the  four  foremost  dramatists  of 
the  Restoration  from  whom  Sheridan  did  not  borrow  directly,  and  it 


32  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

is  Farquhar  with  whom  he  has  the  most  intellectual  sympathy. 
Sir  Walter  Scott  compares  Sheridan  with  Vanbrugh,  and  Congreve, 
and  Lord  Macaulay,  classes  together  Congreve  and  Sheridan  —  and 
yet  it  is  Farquhar  whose  influence  over  him  is  greatest,  and  whom  he 
imitated  from  afar,  much  as  Thackeray  imitated  Fielding,  and  Dick- 
ens, Smollett. 

Vanbrugh's  'Relapse'  is  hopelessly  unfit  for  the  modern  stage. 
Moore  wonders  that  Sheridan  could  have  hoped  to  defecate  the  play 
and  leave  any  of  the  wit.  But  Vanbrugh  differs  from  Congreve. 
Of  all  attempts  to  deodorize  Congreve,  Sheridan  said,  "  Impossible  ! 
he  is  like  a  horse, — deprive  him  of  his  vice  and  you  rob  him  of  his 
vigor."  The  merit  of  Congreve's  comedy  lies  in  the  dialogue,  while 
the  merit  of  Vanbrugh's  play  lies  rather  in  the  situations ;  and  a 
cleansing  of  the  conversation  of  Vanburgh's  play,  although  it  scoured 
off  many  spangles,  still  left  the  stuff  strong  enough  for  ordinary 
wear.  And  it  is  a  fact  that  although  in  the  beginning,  the  '  Trip  to 
Scarborough '  was  a  great  disappointment  to  those  who  had  hoped 
much  from  the  new  manager's  first  play,  it  was  not  at  all  a  failure,  for 
it  soon  recovered  its  ground  and  held  its  own  for  years.  Geneste 
accepts  it  as  one  of  the  very  best  adaptations  of  old  comedy,  and 
declares  that  "  Sheridan  has  retained  everything  in  the  original  that 
was  worth  retaining,  has  omitted  what  was  exceptionable,  and  has 
improved  it  by  what  he  has  added."  Much  of  its  success  was  due, 
no  doubt,  to  the  skill  with  which  it  was  fitted  to  the  chief  actors  of 
the  company,  Lord  Foppington  being  played  by  Dodd,  Miss  Hoyden 
by  Mrs.  Abington,  and  Amanda  by  Mrs.  Robinson,  the  beautiful 
Perdita,  whom  Sheridan  had  coaxed  back  to  the  stage. 

Like  Shakspere  and  like  Moliere,  Sheridan  was  both  author  and 
manager,  and  like  them  he  wrote  parts  to  suit  his  players.  Of  this 
the  '  School  for  Scandal '  is  a  far  better  instance  than  the  '  Trip  to 


A    BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH.  33 

Scarborough.'  Made  out  of  two  earlier  drafts  of  plays,  condensed 
by  infinite  labor  from  a  mass  of  inchoate  material,  toiled  over  inces- 
santly, polished  and  burnished  until  it  shone  again,  the  '  School  for 
Scandal '  was  at  last  announced  before  the  whole  play  was  in  the 
hands  of  the  actors — an  incident  repeated  with  the  'Critic,'  and 
again  with  '  Pizarro.'  At  the  end  of  the  hurriedly-finished  rough 
draft  of  the  fifth  act,  Moore  found  a  "  curious  specimen  of  doxology, 
written  hastily,  in  the  handwriting  of  the  respective  parties  : " 

"  Finished  at  last,  thank  God! 

"  R.  B.  SHERIDAN." 
"  Amen  ! 

"W.  HOPKINS"  [the  prompter]. 

The  'School  for  Scandal'  was  first  performed  May  8th,  1777,  a 
little  less  than  a  year  after  the  purchase  from  Garrick.  The  acting  of 
the  comedy  was  beyond  all  praise.  Geneste  remarks  that  "no  new 
performer  has  ever  appeared  in  any  one  of  the  principal  characters, 
that  was  not  inferior  to  the  person  who  acted  it  originally."  The 
success  of  the  comedy  itself  was  instant,  and  it  has  been  lasting. 
It  is  at  once  Sheridan's  masterpiece,  and  the  chief  English  comedy 
of  the  eighteenth  century.  So  far  at  least,  in  the  nineteenth  century, 
it  has  had  no  equal.  It  was  acted  twenty  times  till  the  end  of  the 
season,  and  the  next  year  sixty-five.  It  drew  better  houses  than  any 
other  piece  ;  indeed,  it  killed  all  competition.  Dr.  Johnson  recom- 
mended Sheridan  for  membership  in  The  Club,  as  the  author  of  the 
best  modern  comedy.  Lord  Byron,  in  like  manner,  called  it  the  best 
comedy.  Garrick's  opinion  of  it  was  equally  emphatic ;  he  was  proud 
of  the  success  of  his  successor  both  as  author  and  manager ;  and 
when  one  of  his  many  flatterers  said  that,  though  this  piece  was  very 
good,  still  it  was  but  one  piece,  and  asked  what  would  become  of  the 


34  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

theatre,  now  the  Atlas  that  propped  the  stage  had  left  his  station, 
Garrick  retorted  quickly  that,  if  that  were  the  case,  he  had  found 
another  Hercules  to  succeed  to  the  office. 

Cumberland  was  the  only  one  dissatisfied.  It  is  related  that  he 
took  his  children  to  see  it,  and  when  they  screamed  with  delight 
their  irritable  father  pinched  them,  exclaiming:  "What  are  you  laugh- 
ing at,  my  dear  little  folks  ?  You  should  not  laugh,  my  angels,  there 
is  nothing  to  laugh  at ; "  adding  in  an  undertone,  "  Keep  still,  you 
little  dunces  ! "  When  this  was  reported  to  Sheridan,  he  said,  "  It 
was  ungrateful  of  Cumberland  to  have  been  displeased  with  his  chil- 
dren for  laughing  at  my  comedy,  for,  when  I  went  to  see  his  tragedy, 
I  laughed  from  beginning  to  end."  But  even  Cumberland,  in  his 
memoirs,  when  defending  his  own  use  of  a  screen  in  the  '  West- 
Indian,'  took  occasion  to  praise  the  'School  for  Scandal.'  "I  could 
name  one  now  living,"  said  he,  "who  has  made  such  a  happy  use  of 
his  screen  in  a  comedy  of  the  very  first  meritC  that  if  Aristotle  him- 
self had  written  a  whole  chapter  professedly  against  screens,  and 
Jerry  Collier  had  edited  it,  with  notes  and  illustrations,  I  would  not 
have  placed  Lady  Teazle  out  of  ear-shot  to  have  saved  their  ears 
from  the  pillory."  Sir  Walter  Scott  found  in  the  'School  for  Scan- 
dal '  the  gentlemanlike  ease  of  Farquhar  united  to  the  wit  of  Con- 
greve.  Hazlitt  held  it  to  be  "the  most  finished  and  faultless  comedy 
we  have."  The  verdict  of  the  public  did  not  change  as  Scott  and 
Hazlitt  came  to  the  front,  and  Garrick  and  Johnson  slowly  faded 
away ;  it  did  not  change  when  Scott  and  Hazlitt  in  their  turn 
departed  ;  it  has  not  changed  since.  A  few  years  ago,  an  American 
critic  of  the  highest  culture  and  the  widest  experience,  Mr.  Henry 
James,  referred  to  the  Old  Comedies  only  to  declare  that,  "for  real 
intellectual  effort,  the  literary  atmosphere  and  tone  of  society,  there 
has  long  been  nothing  like  the  '  School  for  Scandal.'  It  has  been 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  35 

played  in  every  English-speaking  quarter  of  the  globe,  and  has 
helped  English  wit  and  taste  to  make  a  figure  where  they  would 
otherwise,  perhaps,  have  failed  to  excite  observation." 

During  the  next  season  (on  October  15,  1778),  there  was  acted 
a  temporary  trifle  called  the  'Camp,'  often  credited  to  Sheridan,  and 
even  rashly  admitted  into  several  editions  of  his  works ;  in  reality  it 
was  written  by  Tickell,  who  had  married  Mrs.  Sheridan's  sister.  On 
January  20,  1779,  David  Garrick  died,  and  Sheridan  was  a  chief 
mourner  at  the  splendid  funeral.  And  on  March  2d,  the  monody 
which  Sheridan  wrote  to  Garrick's  memory  was  recited  at  Drury 
Lane  Theatre  by  Mrs.  Yates,  to  the  accompaniment  of  appropriate 
music.  This  monody  is  the  longest  of  Sheridan's  serious  poetic  pro- 
ductions, and  it  is  the  least  interesting  and  the  least  satisfactory. 
He  could  write  a  song  as  well  as  any  one  ;  and  he  could  turn  the 
sharp  lines  of  satire  ;  but  a  sustained  and  elevated  strain  seems  too 
high  an  effort  for  his  nimble  wit.  It  is  written  in  "the  straight- 
backed  measure,  with  its  stately  stride,"  which,  as  Dr.  Holmes 
reminds  us, 

"  Gave  the  mighty  voice  of  Dryden  scope; 
It  sheathed  the  steel-bright  epigrams  of  Pope." 

Now,  Sheridan  had  not  a  mighty  voice  ;  and  steel-bright  epigrams 
would  have  been  out  of  place  over  the  grave  of  Garrick.  There  is  a 
want  of  real  feeling  in  these  verses ;  there  is  no  depth  in  them,  and 
little  heart.  There  is  cleverness,  of  course,  and  in  plenty ;  but  even 
of  this  not  as  much  as  might  have  been  expected.  One  looks  in 
vain  for  some  characterization  of  Garrick  himself,  or  for  some  apt 
allusion  to  his  chief  parts,  to  his  private  character,  to  his  writings,  to 
his  position  as  a  man  of  the  world  and  as  a  man  of  letters.  Instead, 
we  have  cold  and  elaborate  declamation  on  the  transitory  nature  of 
the  actor's  art.  This  comparison  of  the  histrionic  with  other  arts, 


36  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

pictorial  and  plastic,  had  been  made  in  verse  by  Garrick  himself  in 
the  prologue  to  the  '  Clandestine  Marriage ' : 

"  The  painter  's  dead,  yet  still  he  charms  the  eye, 
While  England  lives  his  fame  can  never  die; 
But  he  who  struts  his  hour  upon  the  stage 
Can  scarce  protract  his  fame  through  half  an  age; 
Nor  pen,  nor  pencil  can  the  actor  save ; 
The  art  and  artist  have  one  common  grave." 

It  is  this  assertion  of  Garrick's  and  Sheridan's,  it  may  be,  that 
Campbell  answered  in  his  verses  to  Kemble : 

"  For  ill  can  Poetry  express 

Full  many  a  tone  of  thought  sublime; 
And  Painting,  mute  and  motionless, 

Steals  but  a  glance  of  time. 
But  by  the  might v  actor  brought, 

Illusion's  perfect  triumphs  come; 
Verse  ceases  to  be  airy  thought, 

And  Sculpture  to  be  dumb." 

Although  the  '  Monody  on  Garrick '  is  somewhat  labored',  it  does 
not  lack  fine  lines.  Especially  good  is  Sheridan's  use  of  a  chance 
remark  made  by  Burke  at  Garrick's  funeral,  that  the  statue  of  Shak- 
spere  looked  toward  Garrick's  grave.  On  this  stray  hint  Sheridan 
hung  this  couplet : 

"  While  Shakspere's  image,  from  its  hallowed  base, 
Seemed  to  prescribe  the  grave,  and  point  the  place." 

After  the  death  of  Garrick,  Sheridan  made  only  one  important 
contribution  to  dramatic  literature,  the  farce  of  the  '  Critic ;  or  a 
Tragedy  Rehearsed,'  produced  October  30,  1779.  It  shows  great 
versatility  of  wit  in  a  diamatist  to  have  written  three  plays  strong 
enough  to  last  a  hundred  years  and  more,  and  as  unlike  one  another 
as  the  'Rivals,'  the  'School  for  Scandal,'  and  the  'Critic.'  As 
different  from  its  two  predecessors  as  they  are  from  each  other,  the 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  37 

'  Critic '  is  frankly  a  farce  ;  it  has  something  of  the  breadth  of  the 
'  Rivals,'  and  not  a  little  of  the  point  of  the  '  School  for  Scandal ' ; 
it  sets  the  model  of  high-class  farce ;  and  as  a  farce  it  has  but  two 
rivals  in  our  drama  —  one,  the  '  Katherine  and  .Petruchio,'  which 
David  Garrick  made  out  of  Shakspere's  '  Taming  of  the  Shrew,' 
and  the  other,  'High  Life  Below  Stairs'  (probably  Garrick's  own 
handiwork,  although  problematically  ascribed  to  a  Rev.  James 
Townley).  It  is  idle  to  deny  the  indebtedness  of  the  '  Critic ' 
to  the  '  Rehearsal '  of  George  Villiers,  Duke  of  Buckingham  ;  it 
is,  however,  charitable  to  believe  that  those  who  have  gone  so 
far  as  to  call  the  '  Critic '  a  mere  adaptation  of  the  '  Rehearsal,' 
have  never  read  Buckingham's  piece  or  seen  Sheridan's.  The  one 
obvious  resemblance  between  the  two  farces  is  in  the  rehearsal 
of  a  play,  directed  by  its  author,  who  interrupts  with  comment 
and  suggestion.  But  this  is  a  commonplace  of  the  stage  ;  it  has 
been  used  and  abused  time  and  again  both  before  and  since  Buck- 
ingham and  Sheridan.  The  real  similarity  is  in  the  signal  success 
of  the  '  Rehearsal '  and  of  the  '  Critic,'  casting  into  the  shade  all 
other  plays  on  the  same  subject ;  and  the  real  grievance  of  Buck- 
ingham is  that  the  '  Critic  '  supplanted  the  '  Rehearsal '  in  popular 
favor.  Buckingham's  farce,  originally  acted  in  1672,  was  in  the  main 
a  personal  attack  on  Dryden,  satirized  in  the  character  of  Bayes,  the 
whimsical  poet.  Garrick  had  given  the  play  a  new  lease  of  life  by 
the  use  he  made  of  Bayes  to  give  imitations  of  the  more  prominent 
of  his  fellow-actors  ;  but  Garrick's  successor  as  manager  of  Drury 
Lane  killed  the  old  farce  with  his  new  one ;  and  Mr.  Puff  nailed  the 
centenarian  Bayes  in  his  coffin  at  last. 

The  idea  of  writing  a  comic  play  about  a  rehearsal  was  not  new  to 
Sheridan.  Moore  quotes  from  his  first  attempt  a  mythological  bur- 
lesque on  the  celestial  intrigues  of  Ixion,  written  in  imitation  of  the 


38  RICHARD  BRIXSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

burletta  of  'Midas.'  It  is  a  little  curious  to  note  that  this  same  sub- 
ject was  afterward  treated  in  an  early  novelette,  '  Ixion  in  Heaven/  by 
Benjamin  Disraeli,  the  only  man  in  the  history  of  England  whose 
career  can  fairly  be  compared  with  Sheridan's.  This  'Jupiter'  was 
sketched  out  by  Sheridan  in  collaboration  with  Halhed  in  1770,  about 
the  time  they  were  at  work  on  their  joint  version  of  Aristaenetus. 
The  burlesque  itself,  a  rather  clever  mingling  of  the  Ixion-Juno 
legend  with  the  Jupiter-Alcmena  intrigue,  seems  to  have  been  Hal- 
hed's  work,  while  the  rehearsal  scenes  in  which  it  was  set  are 
Sheridan's.  The  MS.  is  now  in  the  British  Museum,  and  the  cata- 
logue credits  it  to  Sheridan,  despite  Moore's  disclaimer.  After  an 
examination  of  this  MS.  I  can  say  that  the  '  Critic '  owes  very  little 
to  its  elder  brother ;  whatever  has  been  carried  over  from  one  play 
into  the  other  is  greatly  benefitted  by  the  journey.  For  example, 
the  drama  to  be  rehearsed  in  '  Ixion,'  being  in  itself  avowedly  comic, 
does  not  afford  a  tithe  of  the  opportunity  of  jocular  comment  and 
satiric  remark  offered  by  the  more  serious  tragedy  rehearsed  in  the 
'Critic.' 

The  success  of  the  'Critic'  was  indisputable.  We  have  not  the 
contemporary  tributes  to  the  representation  of  the  '  Critic '  which  we 
have  to  the  marvellously  fine  performance  of  the  'School  for  Scandal,' 
but  doubtless  the  manager's  play  was  as  well  acted  in  the  one  case  as 
in  the  other.  The  company  of  Drury  Lane  was  very  nearly  the  same 
in  October,  1779,  as  it  was  in  May,  1777,  and  many  of  the  same 
names  are  to  be  seen  in  the  cast  of  both  pieces.  When  Mr.  Puff  in 
the  first  act  repeats  an  imaginary  theatrical  criticism  of  his  to  Dangle 
and  Sneer,  the  actor  begins  by  praising  his  two  fellow-players  then 
on  the  stage  with  him,  and  ends  by  a  humorously  extravagant  eulogy 
on  himself.  "  Mr.  Dodd,"  says  Mr.  Puff,  "  was  astonishingly  great 
in  the  character  of  Sir  Harry.  That  universal  and  judicious  actor, 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  39 

Mr.  Palmer,  perhaps  never  appeared  to  more  advantage  than  in  the 
Colonel.  But  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  language  to  do  justice  to  Mr. 
King ;  indeed,  he  more  than  merited  those  repeated  bursts  of  ap- 
plause which  he  drew  from  a  most  brilliant  and  judicious  audience." 
Mr.  Puff  was  of  course  King  himself :  he  had  filled  the  important 
part  of  Sir  Peter  Teazle  in  the  '  School  for  Scandal.'  Dodd,  who 
had  been  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite,  was  now  Dangle,  and  Palmer  was 
Sneer,  after  having  played  Joseph  Surface  to  the  satisfaction  even  of 
the  fastidious  author.  Parsons,  once  Crabtree,  now  took  the  wholly 
dissimilar  part  of  Sir  Fretful  Plagiary.  In  later  days  Charles 
Mathews  doubled  the  parts  of  Mr.  Puff 'and  Sir  Fretful,  and  was 
followed  in  the  attempt  by  his  son,  the  late  Charles  James  Mathews, 
an  actor  who  had  just  the  alert  brilliancy  needed  to  keep  alive  and 
lively  the  accumulating  humors  of  the  rehearsal  scenes. 

The  '  Critic  '  was  the  fifth  and  last  play  of  its  author.  It  had  been 
preceded  by  the  'Rivals,'  'St.  Patrick's  Day,'  the  'Duenna,'  and  the 
'School  for  Scandal;'  and  with  these  it  constitutes  Sheridan's  title  to 
fame  as  a  dramatist.  Afterward  he  put  his  name  to  '  Pizarro,'  and 
the  public  chose  to  attach  it  to  the  '  Camp,'  to  the  '  Stranger,'  to 
'  Robinson  Crusoe,'  and  to  the  '  Forty  Thieves.'  But  he  was  not  the 
author  of  any  one  of  these  in  the  same  sense  that  he  was  the  author 
of  the  'Critic '  and  of  its  predecessors,  or,  indeed,  in  any  strict  sense 
of  the  word  whatever.  '  Pizarro  '  was  avowedly  an  adaptation  from 
the  German  of  Kotzebue  ;  as  Sheridan  knew  no  German,  his  share  of 
the  work  at  best  was  but  the  altering  of  the  ready-made  translation, 
and  the  strengthening  of  Rollas  part  by  the  addition  of  patriotic 
harangues  taken  from  Sheridan's  own  political  speeches.  It  is  to 
be  noted,  however,  that  '  Pizarro '  was  perhaps  the  most  profitable 
play  produced  during  Sheridan's  management  of  Drury  Lane.  It 
was  first  acted  May  24,  1799;  it  was  performed  thirty-one  times  in 


40  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

less  than  six  weeks  ;  it  took  the  King  to  the  theatre  for  the  first  time 
in  years ;  nineteen  editions  of  a  thousand  copies  each  were  sold  in 
rapid  succession  ;  and  Sheridan  got  two  thousand  guineas  for  the 
copyright.  The  '  Camp,'  although  printed  among  his  works,  was  not 
his,  as  we  have  seen.  Sheridan's  share  in  the  'Stranger'  was  but 
little  more  than  a  very  careful  shaping  of  the  somewhat  redundant 
and  exuberant  prose  of  the  translator,  Benjamin  Thompson,  to  the 
exigencies  of  the  stage.  His  contributions  to  the  spectacular  and 
very  successful  '  Forty  Thieves,'  and  to  the  pantomime  of  '  Robinson 
Crusoe,'  were  confined  to  a  hasty  sketch  of  the  plot ;  as  manager  of 
the  theatre  he  knew  what  he  wanted,  and  he  drafted  his  suggestions 
on  paper,  leaving  to  other  hands  the  drudgery  of  elaboration. 

Thus,  the  'Critic'  remains  really  Sheridan's  latest  contribution  to 
the  stage.  While  retaining  his  vast  pecuniary  interest  in  Drury 
Lane  Theatre  and  keeping  up  an  active  interest  in  the  drama,  he 
longed  for  a  larger  stage  on  which  to  show  his  brilliant  abilities  in  the 
eyes  of  all  his  countrymen.  He  was  not  desirous  of  wholly  giving  up 
literature  for  politics.  He  intended,  rather  —  like  Canning  in  the 
next  generation  and  Disraeli  in  ours — to  use  literature  as  a  stepping- 
stone  to  politics,  and  as  a  support  after  he  had  taken  the  decisive 
step.  His  time  soon  came.  His" Critic'  was  brought  out  near  the 
end  of  October,  1779,  and  before  the  end  of  October,  1780,  Richard 
Brinsley  Sheridan-,  as  one  of  the  members  for  Stafford,  had  taken  his 
seat  in  Parliament  by  the  side  of  his  friends  Charles  Fox  and  Edmund 
Burke. 

Before  leaving  Sheridan  the  dramatist,  to  consider  briefly  the 
career  of  Sheridan  the  politician,  mention  must  be  made  of  projected 
and  unfinished  dramas  he  left  behind  him.  In  1768,  when  he  was 
only  seventeen,  he  planned  a  play  out  of  the  'Vicar  of  Wakefield.' 
Among  his  papers  Moore  found  the  rough  draft  of  three  acts  of 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  41 

a  musical  drama,  wild  in  subject  and  apparently  satiric  in  intent, 
and  he  quotes  several  pages  of  'it,  including  one  song  which  was 
suggested  by  a  sonnet  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney's ;  the  general  scheme 
sesms  to  be  borrowed  from  the  '  Goblins '  of  Sir  John  Suckling. 
Later  than  this  unfinished  opera-book,  and  apparently  evolved  from 
it  with  much  modification,  was  a  play  called  the  'Foresters.'  Moore 
could  find  only  crude  fragments  of  this  piece,  yet  the  Octogenarian 
who  has  since  written  Sheridan's  life,  asserts  that  at  least  two  acts 
were  wholly  completed,  having  been  read  both  to  him  and  by  him. 
This  later  biographer  it  is  who  fixes  the  date  of  this  piece  as  just 
after  his  second  marriage,  1795.  Most  to  be  regretted,  however,  is 
the  comedy  of  'Affectation,'  in  the  composition  of  which  he  had 
advanced  no  further  than  the  jotting  down  of  many  memorandums. 
These  stray  notes  do  not  preserve  a  single  scene  or  any  vestige  of  a 
plot ;  they  record  only  a  few  embryos  of  .character,  and  germs  of 
jests  and  jokes.  Affectation  was  a  subject  as  fertile  as  Scandal,  and 
as  suitable  to  Sheridan's  gifts ;  he  excelled  in  the  art  of  setting  up  a 
profile  figure  and  sending  successive  bullets  through  its  heart.  With 
a  target  like  Affectation  he  could  have  been  relied  on,  to  ring  the 
bell  every  time  off-hand.  Yet  it  may  be  questioned  whether  Sheri- 
dan, even  under  other  circumstances,  would  ever  have  taken  heart 
and  given  his  mind  to  the  finishing  of  this  comedy.  Moliere  used 
to  turn  aside  compliments  on  his  work  with  a  "Wait  until  you 
see  my  '  Homme  de  Cour.'"  So  Sheridan  used  to  say,  "Wait  till 
you  see  my  'Foresters.'"  But  we  may  well  doubt  whether  he  ever 
really  intended  to  finish  and  polish  and  produce  either  the  'Fores- 
ters' or  'Affectation.'  Like  Rossini  after  'William  Tell,'  Sheridan, 
after  the  '  School  for  Scandal '  was  content  to  quit  work  and  to  bask 
lazily  in  the  sunshine  of  his  reputation.  As  Scott  said  of  Campbell, 
Sheridan  was  "afraid  of  the  shadow  that  his  own  fame  cast  before 


42  RICHARD  BRIXSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

him."  And  Michael  Kelly  records  that  when  he  heard  that  Sheridan 
had  told  the  Queen  he  had  a  new  comedy  in  preparation,  he,  Kelly, 
took  occasion  to  say  to  him,  Sheridan,  "  You  will  never  write  again  ; 
you  are  afraid  to  write." 

Sheridan  fixed  his  penetrating  eye  on  Kelly  and  asked,  "  Of 
whom  am  I  afraid  ?  " 

And  Kelly  retorted  quickly  : 

"  You  are  afraid  of  the  author  of  the  '  School  for  Scandal.'  " 

III. 

When  Sheridan  entered  the  House  of  Commons  in  1780,  the 
chosen  representative  of  the  independent  borough  of  Stafford,  as  Mr. 
Rae  reminds  us,  "  William  Pitt  took  his  seat  for  the  first  time  as  the 
nominee  of  Sir  James  Lowther,  for  the  pocket-borough  of  Appleby." 
Pitt's  first  speech  was  well  received.  Sheridan's  was  not.  It  is 
easier  for  an  unknown  man  to  succeed  in  Parliament  than  a  celeb- 
rity ;  for  the  House  is  jealous  of  all  reputation  got  elsewhere. 
Addison  kept  silent;  Steele  was  greeted  with  shouts  of  "Tatler," 
"  Tatler ;  "  Erskine  and  Jeffrey  and  Mackintosh  barely  held  their 
own  in  the  House ;  Macaulay  and  Lytton  did  little  more ;  Disraeli 
like  Sheridan,  failed  at  first,  and  at  last  became  the  favorite  speaker 
of  the  Commons.  Sheridan's  first  speech  was  made  November  20, 
1780,  and  he  was  heard  with  great  attention.  The  impression  he 
made  was  not  favorable  ;  to  Woodfall,  who  confessed  this  to  him, 
he  exclaimed  vehemently,  "It  is  in  me,  however,  and  by  God,  it 
shall  come  out ! "  It  will  be  remembered  that  Disraeli  was  ill 
received,  and  that  he  told  the  stormy  House  a  time  would  come 
when  they  should  hear  him. 

Sheridan  kept  very  quiet  for  a  year  or  more,  speaking  little,  and 
always  precisely  and  to  the  point,  with  no  attempt  at  display.  After 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  43 

he  had  been  in  Parliament  some  sixteen  months,  Lord  North's 
administration  was  turned  out,  and  the  change  of  ministry  which 
gave  peace  and  independence  to  these  United  States  of  America 
also  gave  his  first  seat  in  office  to  Sheridan,  who  was  appointed  one 
of  the  Under  Secretaries  of  State.  The  death  of  the  Marquis  of 
Rockingham  broke  up  the  new  cabinet  after  a  brief  life  of  four 
months,  and  although  he  disapproved  of  the  step,  Sheridan  loyally 
followed  Fox  in  resigning.  The  unwise  coalition  of  Fox  with  Lord 
North  succeeded  in  driving  Lord  Shelburne  out  of  office ;  and  in  the 
new  government,  Sheridan  was  Secretary  of  the  Treasury.  But  in 
December,  1783,  the  ministry  fell,  and  Sheridan  left  office,  not  to 
return  for  nearly  twenty  years.  In  1784,  he  was  re-elected  for  Staf- 
ford, although  the  unpopularity  of  the  Coalition  was  so  great  that  no 
less  than  one  hundred  and  sixty  of  its  followers  were  defeated  and 
left  with  only  the  barren  consolation  of  calling  themselves  "  Fox's 
Martyrs." 

In  June,  1785,  Burke  gave  notice  that  he  would,  at  a  future  day, 
make  a  motion  respecting  the  conduct  of  a  gentleman  just  returning 
from  India;  and  in  1786,  he  formally  impeached  Warren  Hastings 
for  high  crimes  and  misdemeanors  during  his  rule  over  hapless  India. 
While  it  was  Burke  who,  moved  by  the  deepest  moral  revolt  against 
wrong,  inspired  and  animated  the  prosecution  against  Hastings,  it 
was  perhaps  more  due  to  Sheridan,  who  had  been  gaining  steadily  as 
an  orator,  than  to  Burke,  that  public  opinion,  at  first  favorable  to 
the  defendant,  soon  shifted  against  him.  Sheridan  was  a  popular 
speaker ;  he  spoke  well  and  he  was  listened  to  with  expectation  and 
pleasure.  Burke  spoke  ill ;  and  with  so  little  effect  that  his  oppo- 
nents thought  it  needless  to  answer  some  of  the  orations  to  which 
men  now  refer  as  storehouses  of  political  wisdom.  Any  comparison 
of  Sheridan's  political  understanding  with  Burke's  is  unkind  to  the 


44  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

dramatist,  who  was  not  a  statesman  by  instinct  or  by  training.  But 
that  Sheridan  was  a  better  speaker  than  Burke  admits  of  little 
doubt.  Burke  bored  his  audience ;  Sheridan  charmed,  captivated, 
converted.  It  may  be  that  Burke's  eloquence  was  too  fine  and  too 
good  for  human  creature's  daily  food.  Sheridan's  was  not ;  it  was 
direct,  clear,  convincing.  Burke  had  a  depth  and  an  elevation  that 
Sheridan  had  not ;  but  Sheridan  had  the  commonplace  which  is 
needed  for  popular  consumption,  and  the  common  sense  which  Burke 
not  infrequently  lacked.  It  was  noted  that  Burke's  notes  for  the 
speeches  against  Hastings  were  dates,  facts,  figures  ;  and  that  Sheri- 
dan's were  bits  of  ornamental  rhetoric,  illustrations,  and  witticisms. 
This  is  not  to  Sheridan's  discredit ;  each  orator  had  set  down  what 
he  most  needed.  Burke  could  rely  on  his  exuberant  imagination  and 
his  burning  indignation  to  furnish  him  with  figures  of  speech  ;  and 
Sheridan  treasured  up  carefully  prepared  literary  ornaments,  sure 
of  himself  in  any  treatment  of  the  facts  which  his  clear  mind  had 
once  fully  mastered  by  dint  of  hard  labor. 

It  was  on  February  7,  1787,  that  Sheridan,  following  Burke, 
brought  forward  against  Hastings  the  charge  relative  to  the  Prin- 
cesses of  Oude,  in  the  speech  whose  effect  upon  its  hearers,  Moore, 
considers  to  have  "no  parallel  in  the  annals  of  ancient  or  modern 
eloquence."  Burke,  enthusiastic  for  his  cause,  and  generous  in  his 
praise,  although  already  and  always  jealous  of  Sheridan,  declared  it 
to  be  "the  most  astonishing  effort  of  eloquence,  argument,  and  wit 
united,  of  which  there  was  any  record  or  tradition.''  Fox  said,  "  that 
all  he  had  ever  heard,  all  that  he  had  ever  read,  when  compared  with 
it,  dwindled  into  nothing,  and  vanished  like  vapor  before  the  sun." 
And  Pitt  acknowledged,  "that  it  surpassed  all  the  eloquence  of  an- 
cient and  modern  times,  and  possessed  everything  that  genius  or  art 
could  furnish  to  agitate  and  control  the  human  mind."  Immediately 


A    BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  45 

after  the  delivery  of  the  speech,  an  adjournment  of  the  House  was 
moved,  on  the  ground  that  Sheridan's  speech  had  left  such  an  impres- 
sion that  it  was  impossible  to  arrive  at  a  determinate  opinion.  Un- 
fortunately, no  report  of  this  speech  exists.  There  is  a  wretched 
summary,  with  an  attempt  here  and  there  to  record  a  few  of  Sheri- 
dan's actual  words,  but  the  speech  itself  has  not  come  down  to  us ;  and 
it  is  unfair  to  attempt  to  judge  it  by  the  feeble  and  twisted  fragments 
which  remain.  It  was  this  speech  which  made  Sheridan's  fame  as  an 
orator. 

The  impeachment  of  Warren  Hastings  having  been  voted,  Sheri- 
dan was  appointed  one  of  the  managers  of  the  trial  before  the  House 
of  Lords.  On  June  3,  1787,  he  began  a  speech  of  four  days  on  the 
charge  he  had  presented  in  the  earlier  oration.  No  harder  test  of 
a  man's  ability  could  well  be  devised,  than  the  making  of  a  second 
speech  on  a  subject  which  had  already  called  forth  the  utmost  exer- 
tion of  his  powers.  Hopeless  of  the  success  of  a  second  attempt 
to  hit  the  midday  sun  with  the  same  arrow,  Fox  advised  a  revision 
and  repetition  of  the  first  speech.  Sheridan  was  not  the  man 
thus  to  confess  feebleness  and  exhaustion.  He  girded  himself  for 
the  combat,  and  was  again  victorious.  Yet,  as  Walpole  explains,  he 
"  did  not  quite  satisfy  the  passionate  expectation  that  had  been  raised  ; 
but  it  was  impossible  he  could,  when  people  had  worked  themselves 
into  an  enthusiasm  of  offering  fifty  guineas  for  a  ticket  to  hear 
him."  But  Burke  declared  that  "of  all  the  various  species  of  ora- 
tory that  had  ever  been  heard,  either  in  ancient  or  modern  times, 
whatever  the  acuteness  of  the  bar,  the  dignity  of  the  senate,  or  the 
morality  of  the  pulpit,  could  furnish,  had  not  been  equil  to  what  that 
House  had  heard  that  day  in  Westminster  Hall."  Burke  was  then 
Sheridan's  political  friend  ;  but  Wraxall,  who  was  his  political  oppo- 
nent and  who  had  heard  his  speech,  records,  "that  the  most  ardent 


4<5  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

admirers  of  Burke,  of  Fox,  and  of  Pitt,  allowed  that  they  had  been 
outdone  as  orators  by  Sheridan." 

This  speech  has  fortunately  been  preserved  to  us  in  the  shorthand 
report  of  the  trial,  taken  by  Mr.  Gurney's  reporters  and  published 
at  the  suggestion  of  the  late  Sir  George  Cornwall  Lewis.  Unfortu- 
nately, an  earlier  perversion  of  the  oration,  due  to  the  imaginative 
inaccuracy  of  a  reporter  of  the  old  school  of  Dr.  Johnson,  has  gained 
almost  universal  acceptance,  to  the  lowering  of  Sheridan's  reputation 
as  an  orator.  It  is  this  ludicrously  inexact  report  which  figures  as 
the  real  oration  in  both  of  the  collections  of  Sheridan's  speeches. 
True  it  is,  that  Sheridan  was  artificial  and  that  he  was  frequently 
guilty  of  the  oratorical  and  architectural  fault  of  constructing  his 
ornament  instead  of  ornamenting  his  construction.  But  he  was 
wholly  incapable  of  the  bathos  and  bombast  of  the  speech  which  is 
only  too  often  quoted  as  his.  The  prime  quality  of  his  oratory  was 
its  common  sense.  The  prime  defect  was  its  exuberance  of  rhetoric  : 
it  might  be  said  of  him  as  Joubert  said  of  a  French  orator,  that  "  his 
speech  is  flowery,  but  his  flowers  are  not  a  natural  growth ;  they  are 
rather  like  the  paper-flowers  one  finds  in  shops."  This  seems  a 
minor  failing  when  we  recall  Sheridan's  possession  of  the  one  absolute 
essential  of  the  orator — he  was  persuasive.  Sir  Gilbert  Minto 
records  that  Pitt  was  waked  up  at  seven  in  the  morning  to  see  a  man 
who  was  supposed  to  be  bringing  news  of  a  victory,  but  who  "  told 
Mr.  Pitt  that  he  had  travelled  all  night  from  Brighton,  that  his  name 
was  Jenkins  and  his  business  not  about  the  navy,  but  the  army, 
which  he  had  a  plan  for  recruiting.  He  had  been  reading  '  Pizarro,' 
and  was  persuaded  that  Rollas  first  speech  was  irresistible ;  that  he 
had  read  it  to  numbers  at  Brighton,  and  to  all  he  met  in  the  way. 
Every  soul  felt  its  power,  and  had  enlisted.  Here  he  produced  a  list 
of  all  their  names,  and  insisted  that  if  empowered,  he  coi'ld  soon  raise 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  47 

two  hundred  thousand  men."  Now,  Rollas  first  speech  was  a  recast- 
ing of  one  of  Sheridan's  own  speeches  in  the  House.  Sheridan  was 
not  only  a  born  orator ;  he  was  a  very  carefully  trained  speaker  ;  one 
may  say  almost,  that  he  had  been  bred  to  the  trade.  His  father 
taught  him  oratory  when  he  was  a  boy ;  and  Dr.  Parr  bears  witness 
to  his  school-boy  knowledge  of  Cicero  and  Demosthenes.  From  the 
time  he  first  came  before  the  public  as  a  speaker,  to  the  end  of  his 
career  as  a  politician,  he  spared  no  pains  to  make  the  best  possible 
appearance. 

As  oratory  is  an  art,  Sheridan's  careful  preparation  should  be 
counted  for  him,  not  against  him.  Most  extempore  speakers  have 
accumulated  a  fund  of  phrases  and  figures,  on  which  they  can 
draw  at  will.  When  Daniel  Webster  was  complimented  on  the 
admirable  description  of  the  British  drum-tap  circling  the  world  with 
the  rising  sun,  a  description  seemingly  the  inspiration  of  the  moment, 
and  called  out  in  an  unexpected  debate,  he  confessed  frankly  that 
he  had  first  thought  of  it  one  morning  in  a  Canadian  citadel,  and 
that,  taking  his  seat  on  a  cannon,  he  had  at  once  given  it  shape  on 
paper,  and  then  committed  it  to  his  capacious  memory,  where  it  was 
stored  up,  ready  for  instant  use.  Sheridan  in  this,  as  in  more  than 
one  other  thing,  was  like  Webster.  He  set  down  every  chance  sug- 
gestion, and  sought  to  be  prepared  against  the  moment  of  danger. 
But,  however  carefully  elaborated  his  epigram  might  be,  there  was 
no  trace  of  the  workshop ;  all  the  tools  were  put  away,  and  the  shav- 
ings swept  up.  His  wit,  whether  old  or  new,  had  always  the  appear- 
ance of  spontaneity.  It  could  not  be  said  of  him,  as  Joubert  said  of 
a  would-be  French  wit,  who  was  ever  trying  to  entice  you  into  the 
ambuscade  of  a  ready-made  joke,  and  whose  jests  had  no  trace  of 
inspiration,  " //  ne  scrt  pas  c/iand."  Sheridan  always  served  piping 
hot.  No  one  ever  saw  the  trains  which  fired  the  corruscating  wheel. 


48  RICHARD    BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

Had  it  not  been  for  Moore's  indiscretion,  no  one  would  ever  have 
suspected  the  workshop,  the  kitchen,  or  the  quick  match.  And  it 
must  be  remembered  that  very  few  of  Sheridan's  strokes  of  wit, 
and  not  at  all  his  best  ones,  could  have  been  considered  in  advance. 
When  taken  unawares  he  was  as  ready  as  when  armed  for  the 
encounter.  There  are  instances,  almost  without  number,  in  which 
the  steel  of  Sheridan's  wit  struck  fire  from  the  chance  flint  of  the 
moment. 

To  say  that  because  Sheridan  sometimes  used  the  wit  of  others, 
he  had  none  of  his  own;  and  that  because  he  always  prepared,  when 
possible,  he  could  do  naught  impromptu,  is  absurd — although  it  is 
said,  now  and  again.  Strike  out  of  his  comedies  all  the  jests  he  may 
have  lifted  from  his  predecessors,  and  the  loss  would  scarcely  be 
noticed,  —  we  doubt,  in  fact,  whether  it  would  be  detected  at  all, 
except  by  professed  students  of  dramatic  literature.  Strike  out  of 
his  record  as  a  speaker  in  public  and  in  private,  all  the  suggestions 
derived  from  others,  and  again  the  loss  is  scarcely  to  be  seen.  Sheri- 
dan gave  to  his  work  the  labor  of  the  artist  who  knows  the  value  of 
his  conception,  and  seeks  to  bring  out  the  final  perfection.  The 
care  he  bestowed  on  the  polishing  of  his  diamond  till  it  should  be  as 
brilliant  and  as  cutting  as  possible,  led  him  at  times  ,to  repeat  him- 
self; indeed,  in  later  life  he  reverted  so  often  to  his  earlier  and  easier 
writings  for  stones  to  set  more  elaborately,  that  he  incurred  the 
reproach  of  borrowing  from  himself.  Even  in  the  '  Duenna,'  more 
than  one  song  was  taken  from  this  or  that  copy  of  verses  written  to 
Miss  Linley,  or  some  other  fair  lady,  during  his  bachelor  days  in 
Bath.  The  curt  assertion  that  a  political  opponent  relied  on  his 
imagination  for  his  facts,  and  on  his  memory  for  his  wit,  he  tried 
in  several  forms  before  he  was  finally  satisfied  with  it.  It  is  difficult 
to  say  whether  this  repetition  of  what  he  had  used  once  already 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  49 

came  more  from  a  desire  to  leave  all  his  wit  in  the  best  shape  for 
posterity,  lightened  of  superfluity,  or  whether  it  sprang  from  his 
natural  laziness,  which  led  him  always  to  fall  back  on  what  he  had 
on  hand  when  it  was  possible  to  avoid  the  exertion  of  originality. 
So  far  did  he  carry  this,  not  only  in  public  but  in  private,  that,  as 
Mr.  Harness  tells  us,  he  endangered  the  peace  of  his  household  ;  his 
second  wife  was  found  one  day  walking  up  and  down  her  drawing- 
room,  apparently  in  a  frantic  state  of  mind,  calling  her  husband  a 
villain,  because,  as  she  explained  after  some  hesitation,  she  had  just 
discovered  that  the  love  letters  he  sent  her  were  the  very  same  as 
those  which  he  had  written  to  his  first  wife.  As  a  writer  in  the 
Quarterly  Review  has  remarked,  "  It  is  singular  enough  that  the 
treasures  of  wit  which  Sheridan  was  thought  to  possess  in  such 
profusion,  should  have  been  the  only  species  of  wealth  which  he  ever 
dreamt  of  economizing." 

To  the  quick  wit  and  good  humor  of  Sheridan's  conversation  we 
have  the  testimony  of  well-nigh  all  who  met  him.  An  easy  nature, 
an  unfailing  readiness,  and  an  innocent  delight  in  the  exercise  of  his 
powers,  made  him  a  most  enjoyable  companion,  and  therefore  to  be 
bidden  to  every  conviviality.  It  is  true  that  Byron  tells  us  that 
"  Sheridan's  humor,  or  rather  wit,  was  always  saturnine  and  some- 
times savage.  He  never  laughed,  at  least  that  I  saw,  and  I  watched 
him."  But  Byron  only  saw  him  in  his  soured  and  tormented  age. 
In  his  youth,  and  in  early  manhood,  he  was  lively  and  full  of 
fun,  abundant  in  boyish  pranks  and  practical  jokes.  With  Tickell, 
who  had  married  Mrs.  Sheridan's  sister,  he  was  ever  ready  for  a 
fantastic  freak,  only  too  often  of  the  practical  sort.  One  Saturday 
night  he  volunteered  to  write  a  sermon  to  be  preached  by  a  reverend 
friend  visiting  him,  and  it  was  only  months  after  the  clergyman  had 
delivered  the  admirable  discourse  on  The  Abuse  of  Riches,  which 


50  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

Sheridan  had  spent  the  evening  in  composing,  that  he  discovered  it 
to  be  a  covert  attack  on  a  local  magnate  generally  accused  of  ill- 
treating  the  poor.  In  later  life,  in  his  sad  decadence,  after  unchecked 
conviviality  had  done  its  work,  coming  one  night  very  late  out  of  a 
tavern,  he  was  so  overtaken  with  liquor  as  to  need  the  aid  of  passers, 
who  asked  his  name  and  abode,  and  to  whom  he  gravely  made 
answer,  "  Gentlemen,  I  am  not  often  in  this  way ;  my  name  is 
Wilberforce."  This  is  a  reckless  jest,  at  which  even  M.  Taine, 
nowhere  disposed  to  be  over-amiable  to  Sheridan,  smiles  perforce. 
A  man  capable  of  practical  jokes  like  these,  even  in  his  saddest 
age,  is  as  far  removed  as  may  be  from  moroseness.  Sydney  Smith's 
opinion  lies  directly  across  Byron's;  "the  charm  of  Sheridan's  speak- 
ing," said  he,  "was  his  multifariousness  of  style."  Now,  a  man 
savage,  saturnine,  or  morose  can  hardly  have  a  multifariousness 
of  style  in  speaking  ;  and  one  is  at  a  loss  to  account  for  Byron's 
assertion.  Sydney  Smith  has  been  cited,  because,  like  Byron,  he 
met  Sheridan  only  when  the  author  of  the  '  School  for  Scandal '  was 
old  and  worn  and  wearied.  In  his  bright  and  brilliant  youth,  after 
he  had  suddenly  from  nothing  sprung  to  the  front,  and  the  ball  lay  at 
his  feet,  he  was  everywhere  hailed  as  a  wit  of  the  first  water.  Lord 
John  Townshend  made  a  dinner  party  for  Fox  to  meet  Sheridan  ;  and 
he  records  :  "  The  first  interview  between  them  I  shall  never  forget. 
Fox  told  me,  after  breaking  up  from  dinner,  that  he  had  always 
thought  Hare,  after  my  uncle  Charles  Townshend,  the  wittiest  man 
he  ever  met  with,  but  that  Sheridan  surpassed  them  both  infinitely." 
And  this,  let  it  be  noted,  was  after  the  host  had  specially  raised 
Fox's  expectations  by  dwelling  at  length  on  Sheridan's  extraordinary 
powers. 

Unless  Sheridan's  manner  when  Byron  was  present  was  unusual, 
or  unless  he  had  changed  unaccountably  with  the  thickening  years, 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  51 

Sydney  Smith's  opinion  is  more  to  be  relied  on  than  the  poet's. 
And  Sydney  Smith,  it  is  to  be  remembered,  is  one  who  had  wit  enough 
of  his  own  to  appreciate  Sheridan's.  There  is  indeed  one  quality  in 
which  the  dramatist  and  the  Dean  were  alike.  Lord  Dudley  said  to 
the  latter,  —  "  You  have  been  laughing  at  me  constantly,  Sydney,  for 
the  last  seven  years,  and  yet  in  all  that  time,  you  never  said  a  single 
thing  to  me  that  I  wished  unsaid."  In  like  manner,  Sheridan  was 
ever  girding  at  Michael  Kelly  —  "  Composer  of  Wines  and  Importer 
of  Music"  —  and  yet  his  cuts  were  kindly  and  left  no  scar,  and 
nowhere  is  Sheridan  treated  with  more  honest  affection  than  in 
Kelly's  recollections.  Sydney  Smith's  wit  has  been  compared  to 
"summer  lightning,  that  never  harmed  the  object  illumined  by  its 
flash  "  ;  and  to  continue  the  parallel,  in  the  verses  Moore  wrote  just 
after  Sheridan's  death,  he  declared  him  one 

"  Whose  humor,  as  gay  as  the  fire-fly's  light, 

Played  round  every  subject,  and  shone  as  it  played ; 
Whose  wit,  in  the  combat  as  gentle  as  bright, 
Ne'er  carried  a  heart-stain  away  on  its  blade." 

Even  in  political  debate,  however  sharp  or  acrimonious,  Sheridan 
seems  ever  to  have  been  courteous  to  his  adversary ;  and  although 
every  shot  hit  its  mark  with  fatal  effect,  there  was  no  mangling  of 
the  corpse  ;  he  never  made  use  of  explosive  bullets.  However  keen 
his  thrust  and  his  enjoyment  of  it,  there  was  nothing  vindictive  or 
malignant  to  be  detected.  Even  when  his  great  rival,  Burke,  moved 
partly,  it  may  be,  by  jealousy,  but  mainly,  no  doubt,  by  growing 
political  distrust,  broke  with  his  friends  and  crossed  over  to  the 
ministerial  benches,  with  the  cry,  "  I  quit  the  camp,"— Sheridan 
did  not  hasten  to  seize  the  occasion  for  taunting  invective ;  he  only 
hoped  that  as  the  Honorable  Gentleman  had  quitted  the  camp  as 
a  deserter,  he  would  never  attempt  to  return  as  a  spy. 


52  RICHARD    B KINSLEY   SHERIDAN. 

Again  when  Pitt  chose  to  taunt  him  with  his  theatrical  triumphs, 
he  retorted  with  a  stroke  sharp  and  swift,  but  in  no  way  passing  the 
limits  of  friendly  debate.  The  good-humored  point  of  Sheridan's 
parry  is  evident  even  from  the  imperfect  parliamentary  reports  of 
those  days.  Mr.  Pitt  said  that  no  man  admired  more  than  he  did 
"the  abilities  of  that  Right  Honorable  Gentleman,  the  elegant  sallies 
of  his  thought,  the  gay  effusions  of  his  fancy,  his  dramatic  turns  and 
his  epigrammatic  point ;  and  if  they  were  reserved  for  the  proper 
stage,  they  would,  no  doubt,  receive  what  the  Honorable  Gentleman's 

abilities  always  did  receive,  the  plaudits  of  the  audience But 

this  was  not  the  proper  scene  for  the  display  of  these  elegancies." 
Sheridan,  rising  to  reply,  calmly  left  the  question  of  the  taste  of  Pitt's 
personality  to  the  House  ;  and  then  went  on.  "  But  let  me  assure 
the  Right  Honorable  Gentleman,  that  I  do  now,  and  will,  at  any  time 
he  chooses  to  repeat  this  sort  of  allusion,  meet  it  with  the  most 
sincere  good-humor.  Nay,  I  will  say  more  —  flattered  and  encour- 
aged by  the  Right  Honorable  Gentleman's  panegyric  on  my  talents, 
if  ever  I  again  engage  in  the  compositions  he  alludes  to,  I  may  be 
tempted  to  an  act  of  presumption  —  to  attempt  an  improvement  on 
one  of  Ben  Jonson's  best  characters,  the  character  of  the  Angry  Boy, 
in  the  'Alchemist.'"  Recondite  as  this  allusion  seems  now,  it  was 
not  so  then,  for  Garrick's  performance  of  Abel  Drugger  was  one  of 
his  best;  and  the  play  kept  the  stage  till  the  beginning  of  this 
century. 

Sheridan's  oratory  was  like  his  dramatic  writing  and  his  poetry, 
in  that  all  three  things,  speeches,  plays,  poems,  are  only  varied 
forms  of  expression  for  the  wit  which  was  his  chief  characteristic. 
After  he  entered  public  life,  and  until  he  fell  tinder  the  evil  influence 
of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  his  wit  and  his  oratory  were  always  used  in 
the  good  cause.  Like  Burke,  Sheridan  was  at  once  a  true  Irishman 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  53 

and  an  English  patriot.  In  the  preface  of  the  '  Rivals,'  he  declares 
his  attachment  to  Ireland ;  and  at  all  times  throughout  his  career  he 
could  be  relied  on  to  do  whatever  in  him  lay  for  the  greater  honor, 
dignity,  and  peace  of  the  British  empire.  When  the  French  Revo- 
lution came  and  "  the  great  army  of  the  indolent  good,  the  people 
who  lead  excellent  lives  and  never  use  their  reason,  took  violent 
alarm,"  and  when  in  1793  Pitt,  to  use  Mr.  Morley's  apt  expression, 
"lost  his  feet,  though  he  did  not  lose  his  head,"  Sheridan  stood  with 
Fox  by  "the  old  flag  of  freedom  and  generous  common-sense." 
When  the  country  really  was  in  danger  from  French  aggression 
in  1799,  Sheridan  did  not  falter;  and,  as  we  have  seen,  'Pizarro' 
was  worth  many  a  recruit.  And  when  the  mutiny  at  the  Nore 
broke  out,  Sheridan  sacrificed  party  to  patriotism,  and  gave  prompt 
aid  to  the  putting  down  of  the  revolt  in  a  manner  creditable  alike  to 
his  heart  and  his  head,  and  in  marked  contrast  with  the  conduct 
of  other  politicians  then,  like  him,  in  opposition. 

IV. 

From  his  marriage  and  the  production  of  the  '  Rivals,'  to  the  trial 
of  Warren  Hastings,  Sheridan's  position  and  reputation  had  been 
steadily  rising.  For  a  while  they  maintained  themselves  at  the 
exalted  level  to  which  they  had  attained.  But  slowly  the  good  for- 
tune which  had  waxed  began  in  time  to  wane.  In  1788,  Sheridan's 
father  died,  and  in  1792  Sheridan's  wife  died  also,  to  his  great  grief. 
Moore  and  Smythe  bear  witness  to  the  strength  of  Sheridan's  love 
for  his  wife,  and  to  the  depth  of  his  sorrow  at  her  loss.  Had  she 
lived,  perhaps  Sheridan's  later  life  would  have  been  other  than  it 
was ;  one  may  at  least  hazard  this  suggestion.  While  she  was  yet 
alive,  Sheridan  had  begun  to  yield  to  the  temptations  of  society,  to 
live  beyond  his  means,  and  to  neglect  the  business  of  the  theatre. 


54  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

After  her  death  these  bad  habits  grew  on  him,  and  became  inveter- 
ate. Unfortunately  there  was  never  greater  need  of  exactness  and 
economy  than  then  for  the  Drury  Lane  theatre  was  condemned 
by  the  architects  and  torn  down,  and  the  money  to  erect  a  new  theatre 
had  to  be  raised  by  the  issue  of  .£150,000  in  debentures  of  £500  each. 
Pending  the  rebuilding,  the  company  performed  at  the  Opera- 
House,  and  later  at  the  Haymarket.  Unexpected  delay  in  the 
completion  of  the  new  theatre  caused  great  loss,  and  began  that 
accumulation  of  indebtedness  which  was  not  to  be  cleared  off 
during  Sheridan's  life.  At  last  the  theatre  was  complete,  and  on 
April  2 1st,  1794,  it  was  opened  with  a  performance  of  'Macbeth.' 
A  few  weeks  later,  on  the  receipt  of  the  news  of  Lord  Howe's 
victory,  Sheridan  brought  out  an  occasional  piece,  called  'The  Glo- 
rious First  of  June,"  sketched  by  himself,  written,  rehearsed,  and 
produced  in  three  days. 

In  the  spring  the  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of 
love,  and  in  the  spring  of  1795,  Sheridan,  a  young  man  of  forty- 
four,  was  married  to  Miss  Ogle,  a  young  daughter  of  the  Dean  of 
Winchester,  having  settled  upon  her,  as  a  condition  precedent  to  the 
wedding,  a  sum  of  .£15,000,  raised  by  debentures  on  the  theatre. 
During  the  next  few  years  his  difficulties  increased.  At  last,  in 
1802,  came  a  final  blow.  The  theatre  was  burnt  to  the  ground.  As 
the  glare  of  the  burning  building  lighted  up  the  House  of  Commons 
where  Sheridan  sat  in  silence,  a  motion  was  made  to  adjourn,  out  of 
regard  for  Sheridan,  who  opposed  it,  hoping  that  whatever  might  be 
the  extent  of  kis  private  calamity  it  would  not  interfere  with  the 
public  business  of  the  country.  There  seems  to  be  a  doubt  whether 
he  remained  thereafter  at  his  post  in  the  House,  or  whether  he  went 
to  the  scene  of  his  loss  and  the  theatre  of  his  triumphs.  After  the 
destruction  of  Drury  Lane,  Sheridan  was  a  ruined  man.  Mr. 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  55 

Whitbread  took  charge  of  the  erection  of  the  new  theatre  ;  an  act 
of  Parliament  was  passed  enabling  it  to  be  rebuilt  by  subscriptions  ; 
Sheridan  was  paid  .£28,000  for  his  interest  in  the  property,  and  his 
son  Thomas  ;£  12,000  for  his  quarter  share.  But  this  was  conditional 
on  Sheridan's  absolute  abandonment  of  all  connection  with  the 
theatre ;  and  Whitbread  enforced  this  stipulation  with  pitiless 
exactness.  Whitbread  was  the  one  man  whose  heart  was  too  hard 
even  for  Sheridan  to  soften.  It  was  three  years  before  Sheridan  set 
foot  in  the  theatre  he  had  ruled  for  twenty-five  of  the  most  prosper- 
ous and  glorious  years  of  its  career.  Deprived  of  the  revenues  of 
the  theatre,  and  sinking  deeper  into  embarrassment,  he  was  at  last 
unable  to  raise  the  money  needed  for  his  election  at  Stafford.  In 
1812  he  made  his  final  speech  in  the  House  of  Commons  ;  it  was  a 
warning  against  the  rapacious  designs  of  Napoleon.  From  this 
time,  Moore  tells  us,  "the  distresses  of  Sheridan  now  increased  every 
day,  and  through  the  short  remainder  of  his  life  it  is  a  melancholy 
task  to  follow  him."  He  was  forced  to  sell  his  books,  his  plate,  his 
pictures,  and  even  to  part  with  the  portrait  of  Mrs.  Sheridan  by 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  In  the  spring  of  1815  came  "  one  of  the  most 
humiliating  trials  of  his  pride ; "  "  he  was  arrested  and  carried  to  a 
sponging-house,  where  he  remained  two  or  three  days."  That 
Sheridan  should  have  been  neglected  in  this  condition  by  the  Prince 
whom  he  had  served  to  his  own  discredit,  is  only  what  one  might 
have  expected  from  the  First  Gentleman  in  Europe ;  but  there  are 
those  who  declare  that  a  sum  of  money,  about  £3,000,  was  sent 
Sheridan  by  the  Prince,  although  it  was  "either  attached  by  his 
creditors,  or  otherwise  dissipated  in  such  manner  that  very  little  of 
it  actually  reached  its  destination."  It  is  to  be  remembered  that  he 
had  no  pension  like  Burke,  and  that  no  public  or  private  subscription 
was  ever  taken  up  for  Sheridan  as  it  was  for  Pitt  and  Fox,  for 


56  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

Lamartine  and  for  Daniel  Webster.  It  must  be  remembered,  too, 
that  the  settlement  on  the  second  Mrs.  Sheridan  was  ^15,000,  and 
that  Sheridan's  debts  at  his  death  were  found  to  be  less  than  ^5,000 
—  far  less  than  the  debts  of  Fox  or  Pitt.  The  anonymous  "  Octoge- 
narian," in  whose  biography  is  to  be  found  the  best  account  of 
Sheridan's  last  hours,  describes  Mrs.  Sheridan's  grief  and  her 
constant  attention  in  his  last  days.  Peter  Moore,  Dr.  Bain,  and 
Samuel  Rogers  were  also  true  to  their  fast  failing  friend.  None 
the  less  is  it  a  fact,  that  he  was  under  arrest  when  he  was  dying, 
"on  a  writ  issued  at  a  time  when  the  invalid  was  in  a  state  of 
unconsciousness."  Fortunately,  the  sheriff's  officer  had  a  kind  heart, 
and,  as  the  custodian  of  the  dying  man,  he  protected  him  against 
any  other  suit  which  might  be  urged  against  him.  Mrs.  Sheridan 
sent  for  the  Bishop  of  London  to  read  prayers  for  him,  but  Sheridan 
was  wholly  insensible.  At  nine  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  Sunday, 
July  7,  1816,  he  said  "Good-bye;"  these  were  his  last  words.  He 
sank  rapidly,  and  died  at  twelve  noon. 

On  the  following  Saturday,  July  13,  the  body  of  the  man  who  had 
died  in  neglect  was  buried  with  great  pomp  in  Westminster  Abbey, 
with  Dukes  and  Earls  as  pall-bearers,  and  with  a  long  string  of  Royal 
and  Noble  mourners. 

V. 

Sheridan's  character  is  enigmatic ;  it  is  not  to  be  read  off-hand 
and  at  random  ;  it  is  complicated  and  unequal ;  and  it  is  to  be  under- 
stood and  explained  only  at  the  cost  of  effort.  Sheridan  was  good- 
natured  and  warm  hearted;  he  never  did  any  one  any  intentional 
injury ;  but  he  brought  trouble  on  all  who  trusted  him.  While  he 
was  gentle,  kind  and  affectionate,  his  wife  had  reason  to  feel 
neglected,  and  his  father  parted  from  him  in  anger.  He  earned 


FAC-SIMILE  OF  AUTOGRAPH  LETTER  OF  SHERIDAN. 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH.  57 

enormous  sums  of  money,  and  his  advice  to  others  was  always  admi- 
rable, but  his  own  affairs  were  in  ever-increasing  confusion.  He  was 
always  involved  in  debt ;  yet  his  accounts  as  a  government  officer 
were  scrupulously  accurate.  To  continue  the  antitheses  would  be 
easy,  for  the  story  of  his  life  is  a  series  of  antithesis ;  but  to  suggest 
a  clue  to  the  labyrinth  of  his  character  is  not  so  easy.  Briefly,  I  am 
inclined  to  think  that  it  is  to  be  sought  in  the  uncommon  conjunction 
in  Sheridan  of  two  irreconcilable  things,  a  very  high  standard  of 
morals  with  an  absence  of  training  and  discipline.  The  latter  failing 
vitiated  the  former  virtue.  Incapable  of  keeping  himself  up  in  the 
clear  air  and  on  the  high  level  of  exalted  principle  to  which  he 
aspired,  he  was  far  less  careful  in  the  ordinary  duties  of  life  than  are 
those  whose  aim  is  not  so  lofty.  When  he  found  that  he  could  not 
attain  the  high  standard  he  had  set  before  him,  he  cared  little  how 
much  he  fell  short  of  it — and  so  sank  below  the  ethical  mean  of 
ordinary  mortals.  There  was  nothing  venal. or  sordid  about  him  ;  he 
was  liked  by  all,  though  all  who  liked  him  did  not  respect  him ;  he 
was  a  humorist  even  in  his  code  of  morality.  He  always  meant  well, 
but  while  the  spirit  might  be  willing  the  flesh  was  often  weak.  He 
intended  to  be  not  merely  generous  with  everybody,  but  also,  abso- 
lutely honest  and  upright ;  his  heart  was  in  the  right  place,  as  the 
saying  is,  but  his  views  were  too  magnificent  for  his  means ;  and  he 
had  neither  self-denial  nor  self-discipline ;  when,  therefore,  he  had 
once  put  himself  in  a  position  where  he  was  unable  to  do  exactly 
what  he  had  agreed  to  do,  and  what  he  always  desired  to  do, 
he  ceased  to  care  whether  or  not  he  did  all  he  could  do.  In 
time  this  habit  grew  upon  him,  and  the  frequency  of  failure  to 
accomplish  what  he  had  intended,  blunted  his  aspirations.  He 
always  meant  well,  as  I  have  said,  and  as  time  went  on  people 
had  to  be  content  to  take  the  will  for  the  deed.  This  type  of  char- 


58  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

acter  is  not  as  uncommon  as  it  may  seem  at  first  sight.  Substan- 
tially it  does  not  differ  greatly  from  the  Therhe  of  'Elle  et  Lui' 
which  George  Sand's  latest  biographer  declares  to  be  "a  faithful 
picture  of  a  woman  not  quite  up  to  the  level  of  her  own  principles, 
which  are  so  high  that  any  lapse  from  them  on  her  part  brings  down 
more  disasters  on  herself  and  on  others  than  the  misdemeanors  of 
avowedly  unscrupulous  persons."  In  Sheridan  this  type  was  modified 
for  the  worse  by  an  ambition  perilously  akin  to  vanity,  and  by  an 
indolence  accompanied  by  an  extraordinary  power  of  hard  work  when- 
ever spurred  to  it  by  an  extraordinary  motive.  This  vanity  and  this 
indolence  were  the  contending  evil  spirits  who  strove  for  the  mastery 
in  Sheridan's  later  days.  The  indolence  encouraged  his  carelessness 
in  money  matters,  and  the  vanity  or  ambition  or  pride  stiffened  his 
impracticably  high  code  of  morality.  He  was  always  paying  his 
debts  in  a  large-handed,  reckless  way,  but  he  was  never  out  of  debt. 
He  scorned  to  examine  an  account  or  to  catechize  a  claimant ;  when 
he  had  money  he  paid,  and  when  he  had  none  he  promised  to  pay  — 
and  he  kept  his  word,  if  reminded  of  it  when  money  came  in.  All,  or 
nearly  all,  of  his  shares  in  the  rebuilt  theatre  were  given  to  creditors 
without  any  question  as  to  their  claims.  Sheridan  stripped  himself 
and  died  in  poverty  and  left  but  few  creditors  unpaid.  From  sheer 
heedlessness  he  probably  had  paid  far  more  than  he  actually  owed, 
but  he  never  made  an  effort  to  investigate  his  liabilities,  or  to  set 
them  off  against  his  assets  to  see  the  exact  state  of  his  affairs. 
He  had  not  the  mercantile  morality,  as  he  had  not  the  mercantile 
training,  which  would  have  stood  him  in  good  stead  so  often  in 
his  checkered  career.  But  he  had  personal  morality  in  money  mat- 
ters, and  he  had  political  morality.  His  nice  sense  of  honor  led  him 
to  withdraw  his  wife  from  the  concert-stage  as  soon  as  they  were 
married.  He  told  a  creditor  who  had  his  bond,  and  who  found  him 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  59 

in  unexpected  possession  of  money,  that  he  had  to  use  the  money  to 
meet  a  debt  of  honor,  whereupon  the  creditor  burnt  his  bond  before 
his  face  and  declared  his  debt  was  thereafter  a  debt  of  honor,  and 
Sheridan  paid  it  at  once.  In  his  political  career  he  more  than  once 
sacrificed  place  to  principle. 

As  Carlyle  says  of  Schiller,  "  we  should  not  lightly  think  of  com- 
prehending the  very  simplest  character  in  all  its  bearings ;  and  it 
might  well  argue  vanity  to  boast  of  even  a  common  acquaintance 
with  one  like"  Sheridan's,  which  was  even  more  complex  and  prob- 
lematic than  Schiller's.  "Such  men  as  he  are  misunderstood  by  their 
daily  companions,  much  more  by  the  distant  observer,  who  gleans  his 
information  from  scanty  records  and  casual  notices  of  characteristic 
events,  which  biographers  are  often  too  indolent  or  injudicious  to 
collect,  and  which  the  peaceful  life  of  a  man  of  letters  usually  supplies 
in  little  abundance."  From  this  injudicious  indolence  of  biographers 
no  man  has  suffered  more  than  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan.  And  for 
this  there  is  no  better  corrective  than  a  reading  of  the  'Monody  on 
the  Death  of  Sheridan,'  which  Byron  wrote,  to  be  delivered  at  the 
opening  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre  in  the  autumn.  Two  extracts  from 
Byron's  poem  may  serve  fitly  to  close  this  brief  and  hasty  summary 
of  Sheridan's  career  and  character  :  — 

"  But  should  there  be  to  whom  the  fatal  blight 
Of  failing  wisdom  yields  a  base  delight  — 
Men  who  exult  when  minds  of  heavenly  tone 
Jar  in  the  music  which  was  born  their  own  — 
Still  let  them  pause  — at  little  do  the}'  know 
That  what  to  them  seemed  vice  might  be  but  woe." 

"  Long  shall  we  seek  his  likeness,  long  in  vain, 
And  turn  to  all  of  him  which  may  remain, 
Sighing  that  nature  formed  but  one  such  man, 
And  broke  the  die,  in  moulding  Sheridan!" 


THE   RIVALS. 


MR.  JOSEPH  JEFFERSON  AS  BOB  ACRES. 


THE    RIVALS. 


TN  the  days  now  departed,  and  perhaps  forever,  when  every  town 
^  in  this  broad  land  had  its  theatre,  with  its  own  stock-company 
of  actors  and  actresses,  the  manager  was  wont  once  and  away  to 
announce,  with  more  or  less  flourish  of  trumpets,  and  as  though  he 
were  doing  a  most  meritorious  thing,  a  series  of  old-comedy  revivals. 
And  the  custom  still  obtains  in  two  or  three  of  the  larger  cities, 
notably  in  New  York  and  Boston.  Whenever  the  announcement 
was  put  forth,  the  regular  playgoer  retired  within  himself,  and  made 
ready  for  an  intellectual  treat.  To  the  regular  playgoer  the  old 
comedies  were  a  most  important  part  of  the  Legitimate  Drama. 
Just  what  the  Legitimate  Drama  is  I  have  never  been  able  to  get 
denned  exactly ;  nor  can  I  see  why  one  play,  any  more  than  another, 
should  bear  the  bar  sinister ;  to  me  a  play  of  one  kind  is  as  legiti- 
mate as  a  play  of  another  kind,  each  in  its  place.  But,  whatever  the 
Legitimate  Drama  might  be,  there  was  no  doubt  in  the  mind  of  the 
regular  playgoer  that  the  Old  Comedies  were  an  integral  part  of  it. 
If  you  asked  the  regular  playgoer  for  a  list  of  the  Old  Comedies,  it 
was  odds  that  he  rattled  off,  glibly  enough,  first,  the  'School  for 
Scandal,'  second,  'She  Stoops  to  Conquer,'  and  third,  the  'Rivals.' 
After  these  he  might  hesitate,  but  if  you  pushed  him  to  the  wall,  he 
would  name  a  few  more  plays,  of  which  '  A  New  Way  to  Pay  Old 

63 


64  THE  RIVALS. 

Debts '  was  the  oldest,  and  '  Money '  the  youngest.  Leaving  the 
regular  playgoer,  and  investigating  for  yourself,  you  will  find  that 
the  Old  Comedies  are  mostly  those  which,  in  spite  of  their  being 
more  than  a  hundred  years  old,  are  yet  lively  and  sprightly  enough 
to  amuse  a  modern  audience. 

The  life  of  a  drama,  even  of  a  successful  drama,  is  rarely  three- 
score years  and  ten  ;  and  the  number  of  dramas  which  live  to  be  cen- 
tenarians is  small  indeed.  In  the  last  century  the  case  was  different ; 
and  a  hundred  years  ago  the  regular  playgoer  had  a  chance  to  see 
frequently  eight  or  ten  pieces  by  Massinger,  Ben  Jonson,  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher,  and  Shirley.  Nowadays,  Shakspere's  are  >the  only 
Elizabethan  plays  which  keep  the  stage,  with  one  solitary  exception 
—  Massinger's  '  A  New  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts.'  The  '  Chances,'  of 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher ;  the  '  City  Madam,'  of  Massinger ;  and 
'  Every  Man  in  his  Humor,'  of  Ben  Jonson  —  these  have  all,  one 
after  another,  dropped  out  of  sight.  The  comedies  of  the  last  century 
have  now  in  their  turn  become  centenarians ;  of  these  there  are  half 
a  score  which  have  a  precarious  hold  on  the  theatre,  and  are  seen  at 
lengthening  intervals ;  and  there  are  half  a  dozen  which  hold  their 
own  firmly.  Of  this  scant  half-dozen,  the  '  School  for  Scandal '  is, 
perhaps,  in  the  greatest  request,  followed  closely  by  '  She  Stoops  to 
Conquer,"  and  by  the  '  Rivals.'  Of  late  the  '  Rivals'  has  been  seen 
most  often  in  these  United  States,  since  Mr.  Joseph  Jefferson,  laying 
aside  the  accent  and  the  tatters  of  that  ne'er-do-weel,  Rip  Van 
Winkle,  has  taken  on  the  counterfeit  presentment  of  Bob  Acres, 
full  of  strange  oaths  and  of  a  most  valiant  bearing  ;  and  he  has 
been  aided  and  abetted  by  that  sterling  artist,  Mrs.  John  Drew, 
as  the  voluble  Mrs.  Malaprop. 

The  '  Rivals '  was  Sheridan's  first  play ;  it  was  produced  at 
Covent  Garden,  January  17,  1775.  Like  the  first  plays  of  'many 


INTRODUCTION.  65 

another  dramatist  who  has  afterward  succeeded  abundantly,  it  failed 
dismally  on  its  first  performance,  and  again  on  the  second,  the  night 
after.  It  was  immediately  withdrawn ;  in  all  probability,  it  was 
somewhat  rewritten  ;  and  of  a  certainty  it  was  very  much  shortened. 
Then,  on  January  28,  after  a  ten  days'  absence  from  the  bills,  it 
reappeared,  with  Mr.  Clinch  in  the  place  of  Mr.  Lee,  as  Sir  Lucius 
O'  Trigger. 

Moore  remarks  that  as  comedy,  more  than  any  other  species  of 
composition,  requires  "  that  knowledge  of  human  nature  and  the 
world  which  experience  alone  can  give,  —  it  seems  not  a  little  extra- 
ordinary that  nearly  all  our  first-rate  comedies  should  have  been 
the  productions  of  very  young  men."  Moore  then  cites  Farquhar, 
and  Vanbrugh,  and  especially  Congreve,  all  of  whose  comedies 
were  written  before  he  was  twenty-five.  It  is  these  three  writers 
who  gave  the  stamp  to  English  comedy  ;  and  Sheridan's  die  was  not 
unlike  theirs.  Now,  a  consideration  of  the  fact  that  English  comedy 
is  thus,  in  a  measure,  the  work  of  young  men,  may  tend  to  explain  at 
once  its  failings  and  its  force.  As  Lessing  says  :  "  Who  has  nothing 
can  give  nothing.  A  young  man,  just  entering  upon  the  world  him- 
self, cannot  possibly  know  and  depict  the  world."  And  this  is  just 
the  weak  point  of  English  comedy ;  it  is  brilliant  and  full  of  dash, 
and  it  carries  itself  bravely,  but  it  does  not  show  an  exact  knowledge 
of  the  world,  and  it  does  not  depict  with  precision.  "  The  greatest 
comic  genius,"  Lessing  adds,  "  shows  itself  empty  and  hollow  in  its 
youthful  works."  Empty  and  hollow  are  harsh  words  to  apply  to 
English  comedy,  but  I  think  it  easy  to  detect,  behind  all  its  glitter 
and  sparkle,  a  want  of  depth,  a  superficiality,  which  is  not  far  from 
the  emptiness  and  hollowness  of  which  Lessing  speaks.  Compare 
this  English  comedy  of  Congreve  and  of  Sheridan,  which  is  a  battle 
of  the  wits,  with  the  broader  and  more  human  comedy  of  Moliere 


66  THE  RIVALS, 

and  of  Shakspere,  and  it  is  easy  to  see  what  Lessing  means.  In 
place  of  a  broad  humanity,  is  an  exuberance  of  youthful  fancy  and 
wit,  delighting  in  its  exercise.  What  gives  value  to  these  early 
plays,  and  especially  to  Sheridan's,  is  the  touch  of  the  true  dramatist 
to  be  seen  in  them  ;  and  the  dramatist  is  like  the  poet  in  so  far  that 
he  is  born,  not  made. 

"A  dramatic  author,"  says  M.  Alexandre  Dumas,  fits,  "as  he 
advances  in  life,  can  acquire  higher  thoughts,  can  develop  a  higher 
philosophy,  can  conceive  and  execute  works  of  stronger  tissue,  than 
when  he  began ;  in  a  word,  the  matter  he  can  cast  into  his  mold  will 
be  nobler  and  richer,  but  the  mold  will  be  the  same."  M.  Dumas 
proceeds  to  show  how  the  first  plays  of  Corneille,  of  Moliere,  and  of 
Racine,  from  a  technical  point  of  view,  are  as  well  constructed  as  the 
latest.  So  it  is  with  Congreve,  and  Vanbrugh,  and  Farquhar,  and 
Sheridan ;  they  gave  up  the  stage  before  they  had  great  experience 
of  the  world  ;  but  they  were  born  dramatists.  All  their  comedies 
were  made  in  the  head,  not  in  the  heart.  But  made  where  or  ho\v 
you  please,  they  are  well  made.  It  is  impossible  to  deny  that  the 
*  Rivals,'  however  hollow  or  empty  it  may  appear  on  minute  critical 
inspection,  is  a  very  extraordinary  production  for  a  young  man  of 
twenty-three. 

Humor  ripens  slowly,  but  in  the  case  of  Sheridan  some  forcing- 
house  of  circumstance  seems  to  have  brought  it  to  an  early  maturity, 
not  as  rich,  perhaps,  or  as  mellow  as  it  might  have  become  with  time, 
and  yet  full  of  a  flavor  of  its  own.  Strangely  enough,  the  early 
'  Rivals '  is  more  humorous  and  less  witty  than  the  later  '  School  for 
Scandal,'  —  perhaps  because  the  humor  of  the  *  Rivals'  is  rather  the 
frank  feeling  for  fun  and  appreciation  of  the  incongruous  (both  of 
which  may  be  youthful  qualities)  than  the  deeper  and  broader  humor 
which  we  see  at  its  full  in  Moliere  and  Shakspere. 


INTRODUCTION.  67 

So  we  have  the  bold  outlines  of  Mrs.  Malaprop  and  Bob  Acres^ 
personages  having  only  a  slight  likeness  to  nature,  and  not  always 
even  consistent  to  their  own  projection,  but  strong  in  comic  effect 
and  abundantly  laughter-compelling.  They  are  caricatures,  if  you 
will,  but  caricatures  of  great  force,  full  of  robust  fun,  tough  in  texture, 
and  able  to  stand  by  themselves,  in  spite  of  any  artistic  inequality. 
Squire  Acres  is  a  country  gentleman  of  limited  intelligence,  inca- 
pable of  acquiring,  even  by  contagion,  the  curious  system  of  referen- 
tial swearing  by  which  he  gives  variety  to  his  speech.  But  "  odds, 
bullets,  and  blades ! "  as  he  says,  his  indeterminate  valor  is  so 
aptly  utilized,  and  his  ultimate  poltroonry  in  the  duel  scene  is  so 
whimsically  developed,  and  so  sharply  contrasted  with  the  Irish  assur- 
ance and  ease  of  Sir  Lucius  O' Trigger,  that  he  would  be  a  hard- 
hearted critic  indeed  who  could  taunt  Mr.  Acres  with  his  artistic 
short-comings.  And  it  surely  takes  a  very  acute  mind  to  blunder  so 
happily  in  the  "derangement  of  epitaphs"  as  does  Mrs.  Malaprop; 
she  must  do  it  with  malice  prepense,  and  as  though  she,  and  not  her 
niece,  were  as  "headstrong  as  an  allegory  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile." 
It  is  only  a  sober  second  thought,  however,  which  allows  us  to  "  cast 
aspersions  on  her  parts  of  speech."  While  Bob  Acres  and  Mrs. 
Malaprop  are  before  us  we  accept  them  as  they  are  ;  and  here  we 
touch  what  was  at  once  Sheridan's  weakness  and  his  strength,  which 
lay  side  by  side.  He  sought,  first  of  all,  theatrical  effect ;  dramatic 
excellence  was  a  secondary  and  subservient  consideration.  On  the 
stage,  where  all  goes  with  a  snap,  consistency  of  character  is  not  as 
important  as  distinctness  of  drawing.  The  attributes  of  a  character 
may  be  incongruous  if  they  make  the  character  itself  more  readily 
recognizable  ;  and  the  attention  of  the  spectator  may  be  taken  from 
the  incongruity  by  humor  of  situation  and  quickness  of  dialogue. 
Acres 's  odd  oaths  are  no  great  strain  on  consistency,  and  they  help 


68  THE  RIVALS. 

to  fix  him  in  our  memory.  Mrs.  Malapropos  ingenuity  in  dislocating 
the  dictionary  is  very  amusing,  and  Sheridan  did  not  hesitate  to 
invent  extravagant  blunders  for  her,  any  more  than  he  hesitated  to 
lend  his  own  wit  to  Fag  and  David,  the  servants,  who  were  surely  as 
incapable  of  appreciating  it  as  they  were  of  inventing  it.  After  ail, 
Sheridan  had  to  live  on  his  wit ;  and  he  wrote  his  plays  to  make 
money  by  its  display.  And  the  more  of  himself  he  put  into  each  ot 
his  characters,  the  more  brilliant  the  play.  To  say  this  is,  of  course, 
to  say  that  Sheridan  belongs  in  the  second  rank  of  comedy  writers, 
with  Congreve  and  Regnard,  and  not  in  the  class  with  Shakspere 
and  Moliere.  But  humor  and  an  insight  into  human  nature  are  not 
found  united  with  the  play-making  faculty  once  in  a  century ;  there 
is  only  one  Shakspere,  and  only  one  Moliere.  It  is  well  that  a  quick 
wit  and  a  lively  fancy  can  amuse  us  not  unsatisfactorily,  and  that, 
in  default  of  Shakspere  and  Moiiere,  we  have  at  least  Beaumarchais 
and  Sheridan. 

It  is  well  that  Sheridan  wrote  the  'Rivals'  just  when  he  did,  or 
else  both  wit  and  humor  might  have  been  banished  from  the  English 
stage  for  years.  That  there  was  ever  any  danger  of  English  comedy 
stiffening  itself  into  prudish  priggishness  it  is  not  easy  now  to 
credit ;  but  a  hundred  and  ten  years  ago  the  danger  was  real.  A 
school  of  critics  had  arisen  who  prescribed  that  comedy  should  be  gen- 
teel, and  that  it  should  eschew  all  treatment  of  ordinary  human  nature, 
confining  itself  chiefly  to  sentiment  in  high  life.  A  school  of  drama- 
tists, beginning  with  Steele  (whom  it  is  sad  to  see  in  such  company), 
and  including  Cumberland  and  Hugh  Kelly,  taught  by  example  what 
these  critics  set  forth  by  precept.  The  bulk  of  playgoers  were  never 
converted  to  these  principles,  but  they  obtained  in  literary  society 
and  were,  for  the  moment,  fashionable.  There  were  not  lacking 
those  who  protested.  Fielding,  who  had  studied  out  something  of 


INTRODUCTION.  69 

the  secret  of  Moliere's  humor  in  the  adaptations  he  made  from  the 
author  of  the  '  Miser,'  had  no  sympathy  with  the  new  school ;  and 
when  he  came  to  write  his  great  novel,  '  Tom  Jones,'  he  had  a  sly 
thrust  or  two  at  the  fashion.  He  introduces  to  us,  for  example,  a 
puppet-show  which  was  performed  "  with  great  regularity  and 
decency.  It  was  called  the  fine  and  serious  part  of  the  '  Provoked 
Husband,'  and  it  was  indeed  a  very  grave  and  solemn  entertainment, 
without  any  low  wit,  or  humor,  or  jests ;  or,  to  do  it  no  more  than 
justice,  anything  which  could  provoke  a  laugh.  The  audience  were 
all  highly  pleased." 

'Tom  Jones'  was  published  in  1749,  and  in  1773  sentimental 
comedy  still  survived,  and  was  ready  to  sneer  at  Goldsmith's  '  She 
Stoops  to  Conquer,'  and  to  call  its  hearty  and  almost  boisterous 
humor  "low."  But  Tony  Lumpkiiis  country  laugh  cleared  the 
atmosphere.  Genteel  comedy  had  received  a  death-blow.  Some 
months  before  '  She  Stoops  to  Conquer '  was  brought  out,  Foote  had 
helped  to  make  the  way  straight  for  a  revival  of  true  comedy, 
whereat  a  man  might  venture  to  laugh,  by  announcing  a  play  for 
his  "Primitive  Puppet-show,"  called  the  'Handsome  Housemaid,  or 
Piety  in  Pattens,'  which  was  to  illustrate  how  a  maiden  of  low 
degree,  by  the  mere  effects  of  her  morality  and  virtue,  raised  herself 
to  honor  and  riches.  In  his  life  of  Garrick,  Tom  Davies  tells  us  that 
'  Piety  in  Pattens '  killed  sentimental  comedy,  although  until  then 
Hugh  Kelly's  'False  Delicacy'  had  been  the  favorite  play  of  the 
times.  It  is,  perhaps,  true  that  Foote  scotched  the  snake  ;  it  is 
certain,  however,  that  it  was  Sheridan  who  killed  it.  Two  years 
after  Goldsmith  and  Foote  came  Sheridan  ;  and  after  the  '  Rivals ' 
there  was  little  chance  for  genteel  comedy.  Moore  prints  passages 
from  an  early  sketch  of  a  farce,  from  which  we  can  see  that  Sheridan 
never  took  kindly  to  the  sentimental  school.  Yet  so  anxious  was  he 


70  THE  RIVALS. 

for  the  success  of  the  '  Rivals,'  and  so  important  was  this  success  to 
him,  that  he  attempted  to  conciliate  the  wits  and  fine  ladies  who  were 
bitten  by  the  current  craze  ;  at  least  it  is  difficult  to  see  any  other 
reason  for  the  characters  of  Julia  and  Faulkland,  so  different  from 
all  Sheridan's  other  work,  and  so  wholly  wanting  in  the  sparkle  in 
which  he  excelled.  And  the  calculation  was  seemingly  not  unwise  ; 
the  scenes  between  Julia  and  Faulkland,  to  which  we  now  listen  with 
dumb  impatience,  and  which  Mr.  Jefferson,  in  his  version  of  the 
piece,  has  trimmed  away,  were  received  with  delight.  John  Ber- 
nard, who  was  at  one  time  secretary  of  the  Beefsteak  Club,  and 
afterward  one  of  the  first  of  American  managers,  records  in  his  amus- 
ing '  Retrospections '  that  the  audience  at  the  first  performance  of 
the  '  Rivals '  contained  "  two  parties  —  those  supporting  the  pre- 
vailing taste,  and  those  who  were  indifferent  to  it,  and  liked  nature. 
On  the  first  night  of  a  new  play  it  was  very  natural  that  the  former 
should  predominate,  and  what  was  the  consequence  ?  Why,  that 
Faulkland  and  Julia  (which  Sheridan  had  obviously  introduced  to 
conciliate  the  sentimentalists,  but  which,  in  the  present  day,  are  con- 
sidered incumbrances)  were  the  characters  most  favorably  received, 
whilst  Sir  Anthony  Absolute,  Bob  Acres,  and  Lydia,  those  faithful 
and  diversified  pictures  of  life,  were  barely  tolerated." 

But  the  sentimentalists  were  afterward  present  in  diminishing 
force  ;  and  the  real  success  of  the  comedy  came  from  those  who  could 
appreciate  its  fun  and  who  were  not  too  moral  to  laugh.  So  Sheri- 
dan, writing  a  new  prologue  to  be  spoken  on  the  tenth  night,  drew 
attention  to  the  figure  of  Comedy  (which  stood  on  one  side  of  the 
stage,  as  Tragedy  did  on  the  other),  and  bade  the  audience 

44  Look  on  her  well  —  does  she  seem  form'd  to  teach? 
Should  you  expect  to  hear  this  lady —  preach? 
Is  gray  experience  suited  to  her  youth? 
Do  solemn  sentiments  become  that  mouth? 


IN  TROD  UCTION.  ^  I 

Yet,  thus  adorned  with  every  graceful  art 
To  charm  the  fancy  and  to  reach  the  heart, 
Must  we  displace  her?  and  instead  advance 
The  goddess  of  the  woful  countenance?  — 
The  Sentimental  Muse!  —  Her  emblems  view  — 
The  '  Pilgrim's  Progress '  and  a  spring  of  rue ! 
There  fixed  in  usurpation  should  she  stand, 
She'll  snatch  the  dagger  from  her  sister's  hand ; 
And  having  made  her  votaries  weep  ajiood, 
Good  heaven  !  she'll  end  her  comedies  in  blood !  " 

Sheridan's  use  of  the  figures  of  Comedy  and  Tragedy  is  charac- 
teristic of  his  aptness  in  turning  to  his  own  advantage  any  accident 
upon  which  his  quick  wit  could  seize.  Characteristic,  too,  is  the  wil- 
lingness to  borrow  a  hint  from  another.  Sheridan  was  not  above 
taking  his  matter  wherever  he  found  it.  Indeed,  there  are  not  want- 
ing those  who  say  that  Sheridan  had  nothing  of  his  own,  and  was 
barely  able  to  cover  his  mental  nakedness  with  rags  stolen  every- 
where. Mr.  John  Forster  declared  that  Lydia  Languish  and  her 
lover  owed  something  to  Steele's  'Tender  Husband.'  Mr.  Dibdin,  in 
his  "  History  of  the  Stage,"  says  that  Lydia  is  stolen  from  Colman's 
Polly  Honeycombe.  Mr.  E.  P.  Whipple  finds  that  Sir  Anthony  Abso- 
lute is  suggested  by  Smollett's  Matthew  Bramble;  and,  improving  on 
this,  Mr.  T.  Arnold,  in  the  article  on  English  Literature  in  the  new 
Encyclopedia  Britannica,  speaks  of  the  '  Rivals '  as  dug  out  of  '  Hum- 
phrey Clinker.'  Watkins,  Sheridan's  first  biographer,  had  already 
pretended  to  trace  Mrs.  Malaprop  to  a  waiting-woman  in  Fielding's 
'  Joseph  Andrews  ; '  other  critics  had  called  her  a  reproduction  of 
Mrs.  Heidelberg,  in  Colman  and  Garrick's  '  Clandestine  Marriage.' 
And  a  more  recent  writer  spoke  of  Theodore  Hook's  '  Ramsbottom 
Papers '  as  containing  the  original  of  all  the  Mrs.  Malaprops  and 
Mrs.  Partingtons.  Not  only  were  the  characters  thus  all  copied  here 
and  there,  but  the  incidents  also  are  stolen.  Moore  and  Mrs.  Inch- 


72  THE  RIVALS. 

bald  point  out  that  Falkland's  trial  of  Julia 's  affection  by  a  pretended 
danger  and  need  of  instant  flight,  is  anticipated  both  in  Prior's  '  Nut- 
brown  Maid,'  and  in  Smollett's  '  Peregrine  Pickle ; '  and  Boaden,  in 
his  biography  of  Kemble,  finds  the  same  situation  in  the  '  Memoirs  of 
Miss  Sidney  Biddulph/  a  novel  by  Sheridan's  mother,  which  was  once 
very  popular,  but  which  Sheridan  told  Rogers  he  had  never  read. 
Not  content  with  thus  robbing  Sheridan  of  the  constituent  parts  of 
his  play,  an  attempt  has  been  made  to  deprive  him  of  the  play  itself. 
Under  the  head  of  Literary  Gossip,  the  "  Athenaeum  "  of  January  i, 
1876,  had  this  paragraph  : — 

"A  very  curious  and  most  interesting  fact  has  come  to  light  at  the 
British  Museum.  Among  the  collection  of  old  plays  (presented  to  that 
institution  by  Mr.  Coventry  Patmore  in  1864)  which  formerly  belonged  to 
Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  has  been  found  the  holograph  original  of  the 
comedy  'The  Trip  to  Bath,'  written  in  1749,  by  Mrs.  Frances  Sheridan,  his 
mother,  and  which,  it  is  said  in  Moore's  '  Life  of  Sheridan,'  was  the  source 
of  his  play  of  the  '  Rivals.'  A  very  slight  comparison  of  the  two  plays 
leaves  no  doubt  whatever  of  the  fact;  and  in  the  character  of  Mrs. 
Malaprop,  Sheridan  has  actually  borrowed  some  of  her  amusing  blunders 
from  the  original  Mrs.  Tryfort  without  any  alteration  whatever/' 

I  have  massed  these  accusations  together  to  meet  them  with  a 
general  denial.  I  have  compared  Sheridan's  characters  and  inci- 
dents with  the  so-called  originals ;  and  I  confess  that  I  can  see  very 
little  likeness  in  any  case,  and  no  ground  at  all  for  a  charge  of  plagi- 
arism. It  is  not  that  Sheridan  was  at  all  above  borrowing  from 
his  neighbor ;  it  is  that  in  the  '  Rivals '  he  did  not  so  borrow,  or  that 
his  borrowings  are  trifling  and  trivial  both  in  quantity  and  quality. 
Polly  Honeycombe,  for  example,  is  like  Lydia  Languish  in  her  taste 
for  novel-reading,  in  her  romantic  notions,  and  in  nothing  else ;  Polly 
figures  in  farce,  and  Lydia  in  high  comedy ;  Polly  is  a  shop-keeper's 


INTRODUCTION.  73 

daughter,  and  Lydia  has  the  fine  airs  of  good  society.  It  is  as  hard 
to  see  a  likeness  between  Polly  and  Lydia,  as  it  is  to  see  just  what 
Sheridan  owes  to  Steele's  'Tender  Husband.'  The  accusation  that  the 
'Rivals'  is  indebted  to  "Humphrey  Clinker"  is  absurd;  Sir  Anthony 
Absolute  is  not  at  all  like  Mr.  Matthew  Brcvnble ;  indeed,  in  all  of 
Smollett's  novel,  of  which  the  humor  is  so  rich,  not  to  say  oily,  there 
is  nothing  which  recalls  Sheridan's  play,  save  possibly  Mistress 
Tabitlia  Bramble,  who  is  an  old  woman,  anxious  to  marry,  and  mis- 
taking a  proposal  for  her  niece  to  be  one  for  her  own  hand,  and  who 
blunders  in  her  phrases.  How  far,  however,  from  Sheridan's  neat 
touch  is  Smollett's  coarse  stroke !  "  Mr.  Gwynn,"  says  Mistress 
Tabitha  to  Quin  the  actor,  "  I  was  once  vastly  entertained  with  your 
playing  the  '  Ghost  of  Gimlet '  at  Drury  Lane,  when  you  rose  up 
through  the  stage  with  a  white  face  and  red  eyes,  and  spoke  of 
quails  upon  the  frightful  porcupine"  Mrs.  Slipslop,  in  'Joseph 
Andrews,'  has  also  a  misapplication  of  words,  but  never  so  aptly 
incongruous  and  so  exactly  inaccurate  as  Mrs.  Malaprop.  This  trick 
of  speech  is  all  either  Mistress  Bramble  or  Mrs.  Slipslop  have  in 
common  with  Mrs.  Malaprop ;  and  Mrs.  Heidelberg  has  not  even 
this.  The  charge  that  Mrs.  Malaprop  owes  aught  to  Theodore 
Hook  is  highly  comic  and  preposterous,  as  Hook  was  born  in 
1788,  and  published  the  'Ramsbottom  Papers"  between  1824  and 
1828  — say  half  a  century  after  Mrs.  Malaprop  has  proved  her  claim 
to  immortality.  And  it  is  scarcely  less  comic  and  preposterous  to 
imagine  that  Sheridan  could  have  derived  the  scene  between  Julia 
and  Faulkland  from  Prior's  '  Nut-brown  Maid,'  and  from  Smollett's 
'Peregrine  Pickle,'  and  from  Mrs.  Sheridan's  'Sydney  Biddulph';  the 
situation  in  the  play  differs  materially  from  those  in  the  three  other 
productions.  Remains  only  the  sweeping  charge  of  the  "Athe- 
naeum;" and  this  well  nigh  as  causeless  as  the  rest.  The  manuscript 


74  THE  RIVALS. 

of  which  the  "Athenaeum  "  speaks  is  No.  25,975,  and  it  is  called  'A 
Journey  to  Bath ' ;  it  ends  with  the  third  act,  and  two  more  are  evi- 
dently wanting.  It  is  only  "a  very  slight  comparison  "  of  this  comedy 
of  Mrs.  Sheridan's  with  her  son's  'Rivals,'  which  "leaves  no  doubt 
whatever  "  of  the  taking  of  the  latter  from  the  former.  I  have  read 
the  'Journey  to  Bath '  very  carefully ;  it  is  a  rather  lively  comedy,  such 
as  were  not  uncommon  in  1750;  and  it  is  wholly  unlike  the  '  Rivals.' 
The  characters  of  the  'Journey  to  Bath'  are:  Lord  Hewkly ;  Sir 
Jeremy  Bull,  Bart. ;  Sir  Jonathan  Bull,  his  brother,  a  city  knight ; 
Edward,  son  to  Sir  Jonathan ;  Champignon  ;  Stapleton  ;  Lady  Fil- 
mot ;  Lady  Bel  Aircastle  ;  Mrs.  Try  fort,  a  citizen's  widow;  Lucy,  her 
daughter;  Mrs.  Surface,  one  who  keeps  a  lodging-house  at  Bath. 
Mrs.  Surface,  it  may  be  noted,  is  a  scandalmonger,  who  hates  scan- 
dal ;  and  Sheridan  used  both  the  name  and  the  character  in  his  later 
and  more  brilliant  comedy.  In  the  'Journey  to  Bath'  and  the 
'  Rivals,'  the  scenes  are  laid  at  Bath ;  and  here  the  likeness  ends  — 
except  that  Mrs.  Tryfort  seems  to  be  a  sort  of  first  draft  of  Mrs. 
Malaprop.  It  is  difficult  to  doubt  that  Sheridan  had  read  his 
mother's  comedy  and  had  claimed  as  his  by  inheritance  this  Mrs. 
Tryfort,  who  is  described  by  one  of  the  other  characters  as  the 
"vainest  poor  creature,  and  the  fondest  of  hard  words,  which,  with- 
out miscalling,  she  always  takes  care  to  misapply."  None  of  her 
misapplications,  however,  are  as  happy  as  those  of  Mrs.  Malaprop. 

After  all,  the  invention  is  rather  Shakspere's  than  Mrs.  Sheri- 
dan's. Mrs.  Malaprop  is  but  Dogberry  in  petticoats.  And  the  fault 
of  which  Mr.  Whipple  accuses  Sheridan  may  be  laid  at  Shakspere's 
door  also.  Mr.  Whipple  calls  Mrs.  Malapropos  mistakes  "  too  felici- 
tously infelicitous  to  be  natural,"  and  declares  them  "character- 
istics, not  of  a  mind  flippantly  stupid,  but  curiously  acute,"  and  that 
we  laugh  at  her  as  we  should  at  an  acquaintance  "who  was  exercising 


INTRODUCTION.  75 

his  ingenuity,  instead  of  exposing  his  ignorance."  This  is  all  very 
true,  but  true  it  is  also  that  Dogberry  asked,  "Who  think  you  to  be 
the  most  desertless  man  to  be  constable?"  And  again,  "Is  our 
whole  dissembly  appeared ?  And  "O  villain!  thoti  wilt  be  condemned 
into  everlasting  redemption  for  this ! "  Sheridan  has  blundered  in 
good  company,  at  all  events. 

Not  content  with  finding  suggestions  for  Sheridan's  work  in 
various  fictions,  his  earliest  biographer,  Dr.  Watkins,  suggests  that 
the  plot  of  the  '  Rivals '  was  taken  from  life,  having  been  suggested 
by  his  own  courtship  of  Miss  Linley  and  the  ensuing  duel  with  Cap- 
tain Mathews.  And  his  latest  biographer,  Mrs.  Oliphant,  chooses 
to  identify  Miss  Lydia  Languish  with  Mrs.  Sheridan.  Both  sugges- 
tions are  absurd.  There  is  no  warrant  whatever  for  the  assumption 
that  any  similarity  existed  between  Miss  Linley  and  Miss  Languish; 
and  the  incidents  of  Sheridan's  comedy  do  not  at  all  coincide  with 
the  incidents  of  Sheridan's  biography.  Already,  in  his  '  Maid  of 
Bath,'  had  Foote  set  Miss  Linley  and  one  of  her  suitors  on  the 
stage;  and  surely  Sheridan,  who  would  not  let  his  wife  sing  in 
public,  would  shrink  from  putting  the  story  of  their  courtship  into  a 
comedy.  It  has  been  suggested,  though,  that  in  the  duel  scene 
Sheridan  profited  by  his  own  experience  on  the  field  of  honor;  and 
also,  that  in  the  character  of  Faulkland  he  sketched  his  own  state  of 
mind  during  the  long  days  of  waiting,  when  he  was  desperately  in 
love,  and  saw  little  hope  of  marital  happiness ;  in  the  days  when  he 
had  utilized  the  devices  of  the  stage,  and  for  the  sake  of  getting 
near  to  her  for  a  few  minutes,  he  had  disguised  himself  as  the  coach- 
man who  drove  her  at  night  to  her  father's  house.  This  may 
be  true ;  but  it  is  as  dangerous  as  it  is  easy  to  apply  the  speeches  of 
a  dramatist,  speaking  in  many  a  feigned  voice,  to  the  circumstances 
of  his  own  life. 


?6  THE  RIVALS. 

The  '  Rivals,'  as  a  play,  has  suffered  the  usual  vicissitudes  of  all 
old  favorites.  Although  never  long  forgotten,  it  has  been  now  and 
again  neglected  and  now  and  again  harshly  treated.  Of  late  years 
the  parts  of  Faulkland  and  Julia  have  been  much  curtailed  when  the 
comedy  has  been  acted  in  England  ;  and  in  the  admirable  revival 
effected  in  1880  by  Mr.  Joseph  Jefferson  in  the  United  States,  Julia 
was  wholly  omitted  and  Faulkland  was  suffered  to  remain  only  that 
he  might  serve  as  a  foil  to  Bob  Acres.  It  is  pleasant  to  note  that 
when  the  play  was  produced  at  the  Haymarket  Theatre  in  London 
by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bancroft,  the  parts  of  Julia  and  Faulkland  were 
restored  to  their  pristine  importance.  In  the  Haymarket  revival  of 
1884,  as  in  a  highly  successful  revival  at  the  Vaudeville  Theatre 
(where  in  1882-3  the  comedy  was  acted  more  than  two  hundred 
times),  the  part  of  Mrs.  Malaprop  was  performed  by  Mrs.  Sterling, 
whose  reading  of  the  part,  although  more  conscious  and  affected 
than  Mrs.  Drew's,  was  as  effective  as  any  author  could  desire.  In 
the  United  States  we  are  fortunate  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  John 
Gilbert,  whose  Sir  Anthony  Absolute  may  be  matched  with  the 
great  Sir  Anthonys  of  the  past.  We  may  be  sure  that  Mr.  Gilbert's 
fine  artistic  conscience  would  forbid  his  repetition  of  a  freak  of 
Dowton's,  who  once  for  a  benefit,  gave  up  Sir  Anthony  to  appear  as 
Mrs.  Malaprop. 

Nor  was  this  the  only  occasion  when  a  man  played  a  woman's 
part  in  this  comedy.  In  his  autobiography,  Kotzebue  (from  whom 
the  author  of  the  'Rivals'  was  afterward  to  borrow  'Pizarro'), 
records  the  performance  of  the  English  comedy  in  German  in  the 
cloister  of  the  Minoret's  Convent,  a  performance  in  which  the  future 
German  dramatist,  then  a  mere  youth,  doubled  the  parts  of  Julia  and 
Acres  !  In  German  as  in  French,  there  is  more  than  one  translation 
or  adaptation  of  the  '  Rivals ; '  and  some  of  them  are  not  without 


INTRODUCTION.  77 

a  comicality  of  their  own.  It  is  to  be  remembered,  also,  that  on  the 
celebrated  visit  of  the  English  actors  to  Paris,  in  1827,  —  a  visit 
which  had  great  influence  on  the  development  of  French  dramatic 
literature,  and  which  may,  indeed,  be  called  the  exciting  cause  of 
the  Romantic  movement,  —  the  first  play  presented  to  the  Parisian 
public  by  the  English  actors  was  the  '  Rivals.' 


AUTHOR'S     PREFACE. 


A  PREFACE  to  a  play  seems  generally  to  be  considered  as  a 
•*-^-  kind  of  closet-prologue,  in  which  —  if  his  piece  has  been  suc- 
cessful—  the  author  solicits  that  indulgence  from  the  reader  which 
he  had  before  experienced  from  the  audience ;  but  as  the  scope  and 
immediate  object  of  a  play  is  to  please  a  mixed  assembly  in  represen- 
tation (whose  judgment  in  the  theatre  at  least  is  decisive),  its  degree 
of  reputation  is  usually  as  determined  as  public,  before  it  can  be 
prepared  for  the  cooler  tribunal  of  the  study.  Thus  any  farther 
solicitude  on  the  part  of  the  writer  becomes  unnecessary  at  least,  if 
not  an  intrusion ;  and  if  the  piece  has  been  condemned  in  the  per- 
formance, I  fear  an  address  to  the  closet,  like  an  appeal  to  posterity, 
is  constantly  regarded  as  the  procrastination  of  a  suit,  from  a  con- 
sciousness of  the  weakness  of  the  cause.  From  these  considerations, 
the  following  comedy  would  certainly  have  been  submitted  to  the 
reader,  without  any  farther  introduction  than  what  it  had  in  the  rep- 
resentation, but  that  its  success  has  probably  been  founded  on  a 
circumstance  which  the  author  is  informed  has  not  before  attended  a 
theatrical  trial,  and  which  consequently  ought  not  to  pass  unnoticed. 
I  need  scarcely  add,  that  the  circumstance  alluded  to  was  the 
withdrawing  of  the  piece,  to  remove  those  imperfections  in  the  first 
representation  which  were  too  obvious  to  escape  reprehension,  and  too 

79 


80  THE  RIVALS. 

numerous  to  admit  of  a  hasty  correction.  There  are  few  writers,  I 
believe,  who,  even  in  the  fullest  consciousness  of  error,  do  not  wish 
to  palliate  the  faults  which  they  acknowledge ;  and,  however  trifling 
the  performance,  to  second  their  confession  of  its  deficiencies,  by 
whatever  plea  seems  least  disgraceful  to  their  ability.  In  the  present 
instance,  it  cannot  be  said  to  amount  either  to  candor  or  modesty  in 
me,  to  acknowledge  an  extreme  inexperience  and  want  of  judgment 
on  matters,  in  which,  without  guidance  from  practice,  or  spur  from 
success,  a  young  man  should  scarcely  boast  of  being  an  adept.  If  it 
be  said,  that  under  such  disadvantages  no  one  should  attempt  to 
write  a  play,  I  must  beg  leave  to  dissent  from  the  position,  while  the 
first  point  of  experience  that  I  have  gained  on  the  subject  is,  a 
knowledge  of  the  candor  and  judgment  with  which  an  impartial 
public  distinguishes  between  the  errors  of  inexperience  and  inca- 
pacity, and  the  indulgence  which  it  shows  even  to  a  disposition  to 
remedy  the  defects  of  either. 

It  were  unnecessary  to  enter  into  any  further  extenuation  of  what 
was  thought  exceptionable  in  this  play,  but  that  it  has  been  said,  that 
the  managers  should  have  prevented  some  of  the  defects  before  its 
appearance  to  the  public  —  and  in  particular  the  uncommon  length  of 
the  piece  as  represented  the  first  night.  It  were  an  ill  return  for  the 
most  liberal  and  gentlemanly  conduct  on  their  side,  to  suffer  any 
censure  to  rest  where  none  was  deserved.  Hurry  in  writing  has  long 
been  exploded  as  an  excuse  for  an  author ;  —  however,  in  the  dra- 
matic line,  it  may  happen,  that  both  an  author  and  a  manager  may 
wish  to  fill  a  chasm  in  the  entertainment  of  the  public  with  a  hasti- 
ness not  altogether  culpable.  The  season  was  advanced  when  I  first 
put  the  play  into  Mr.  Harris's  hands ;  it  was  at  that  time  at  least 
double  the  length  of  any  acting  comedy.  I  profited  by  his  judgment 
and  experience  in  the  curtailing  of  it  —  till,  I  believe,  his  feeling  for 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE.  8 1 

the  vanity  of  a  young  author  got  the  better  of  his  desire  for  correct- 
ness, and  he  left  many  excrescences  remaining,  because  he  had 
assisted  in  pruning  so  many  more.  Hence,  though  I  was  not  unin- 
formed that  the  acts  were  still  too  long,  I  flattered  myself  that,  after 
the  first  trial,  I  might  with  safer  judgment  proceed  to  remove  what 
should  appear  to  have  been  most  dissatisfactory.  Many  other  errors 
there  were,  which  might  in  part  have  arisen  from  my  being  by  no 
means  conversant  with  plays  in  general,  either  in  reading  or  at  the 
theatre.  Yet  I  own  that,  in  one  respect,  I  did  not  regret  my 
ignorance ;  for  as  my  first  wish  in  attempting  a  play  was  to  avoid 
every  appearance  of  plagiary,  I  thought  I  should  stand  a  better 
chance  of  effecting  this  from  being  in  a  walk  which  I  had  not 
frequented,  and  where,  consequently,  the  progress  of  invention  was 
less  likely  to  be  interrupted  by  starts  of  recollection  ;  for  on  subjects 
on  which  the  mind  has  been  much  informed,  invention  is  slow  of 
exerting  itself.  Faded  ideas  float  in  the  fancy  like  half -forgotten 
dreams  ;  and  the  imagination  in  its  fullest  enjoyments  becomes  sus- 
picious of  its  offspring,  and  doubts  whether  it  has  created  or 
adopted. 

With  regard  to  some  particular  passages  which  on  the  first  night's 
representation  seemed  generally  disliked,  I  confess,  that  if  I  felt  any 
emotion  of  surprise  at  the  disapprobation,  it  was  not  that  they  were 
disapproved  of,  but  that  I  had  not  before  perceived  that  they 
deserved  it.  As  some  part  of  the  attack  on  the  piece  was  begun  too 
early  to  pass  for  the  sentence  of  judgment,  which  is  ever  tardy  in 
condemning,  it  has  been  suggested  to  me,  that  much  of  the  disappro- 
bation must  have  arisen  from  virulence  of  malice,  rather  than  severity 
of  criticism  ;  but  as  I  was  more  apprehensive  of  there  being  just 
grounds  to  excite  the  latter  than  conscious  of  having  deserved  the 
former,  I  continue  not  to  believe  that  probable,  which  I  am  sure  must 


82  THE  RIVALS. 

have  been  unprovoked.  However,  if  it  was  so,  and  I  could  even 
mark  the  quarter  from  whence  it  came,  it  would  be  ungenerous  to 
retort  ;  for  no  passion  suffers  more  than  malice  from  disappointment. 
For  my  own  part,  I  see  no  reason  why  the  author  of  a  play  should 
not  regard  a  first  night's  audience  as  a  candid  and  judicious  friend 
attending,  in  behalf  of  the  public,  at  his  last  rehearsal.  If  he  can 
dispense  with  flattery,  he  is  sure  at  least  of  sincerity,  and  even 
though  the  annotation  be  rude,  he  may  rely  upon  the  justness  of  the 
comment.  Considered  in  this  light,  that  audience,  whose  fiat  is 
essential  to  the  poet's  claim,  whether  his  object  be  fame  or  profit, 
has  surely  a  right  to  expect  some  deference  to  its  opinion,  from 
principles  of  politeness  at  least,  if  not  from  gratitude. 

As  for  the  little  puny  critics,  who  scatter  their  peevish  strictures 
in  private  circles,  and  scribble  at  every  author  who  has  the  eminence 
of  being  unconnected  with  them,  as  they  are  usually  spleen-swoln 
from  a  vain  idea  of  increasing  their  consequence,  there  will  always  be 
found  a  petulance  and  illiberality  in  their  remarks,  which  should 
place  them  as  far  beneath  the  notice  of  a  gentleman,  as  their  original 
dulness  had  sunk  them  from  the  level  of  the  most  unsuccessful 
author. 

It  is  not  without  pleasure  that  I  catch  at  an  opportunity  of  justi- 
fying myself  from  the  charge  of  intending  any  national  reflection  in 
the  character  of  Sir  Lucius  OTrigger.  If  any  gentlemen  opposed  the 
piece  from  that  idea,  I  thank  them  sincerely  for  their  opposition  ; 
and  if  the  condemnation  of  this  comedy  (however  misconceived  the 
provocation),  could  have  added  one  spark  to  the  decaying  flame  of 
national  attachment  to  the  country  supposed  to  be  reflected  on,  I 
should  have  been  happy  in  its  fate;  and  might  with  truth  have 
boasted,  that  it  had  done  more  real  service  in  its  failure  than  the 
successful  morality  of  a  thousand  stage-novels  will  ever  effect. 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE.  83 

It  is  usual,  I  believe,  to  thank  the  performers  in  a  new  play,  for  the 
exertion  of  their  several  abilities.  But  where  (as  in  this  instance) 
their  merit  has  been  so  striking  and  uncontroverted,  as  to  call  for 
the  warmest  and  truest  applause  from  a  number  of  judicious  audi-, 
ences,  the  poet's  after-praise  comes  like  the  feeble  acclamation  of  a 
child  to  close  the  shouts  of  a  multitude.  The  conduct,  however,  of 
the  principals  in  a  theatre  cannot  be  so  apparent  to  the  public.  I 
think  it,  therefore,  but  justice  to  declare  that  from  this  theatre  (the 
only  one  I  can  speak  of  from  experience)  those  writers  who  wish  to 
try  the  dramatic  line  will  meet  with  that  candor  and  liberal  attention 
which  are  generally  allowed  to  be  better  calculated  to  lead  genius 
into  excellence,  than  either  the  precepts  of  judgment,  or  the  guidance 

of  experience. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS, 

AS    ORIGINALLY    ACTED    AT    COVENT-GARDEN   THEATRE    IN    1776. 


SIR  ANTHONY  ABSOLUTE Mr.  Shuter. 

CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE Mr.  Woodward. 

FALKLAND Mr.  Lewis. 

ACRES Mr.  Quick. 

SIR  Lucius  O'TRIGGER Mr.  Lee* 

FAG Mr.  Lee  Lewes. 

DAVID Mr.  Dunstal. 

THOMAS Mr.  Fearon. 

MRS.  MALAPROP Mrs.  Green. 

LYDIA  LANGUISH Miss  Barsanti. 

JULIA Mrs.  Bulkley. 

LUCY Mrs.  Lessingham. 

Maid,  Boy,  Servants,  etc. 


SCENE  — BATH. 
Time  of  Action  — Five  Hours. 


*  Afterwards  by  Mr.  Clinch. 


PROLOGUE. 

BY    THE    AUTHOR. 
SPOKEN    BY    MR.    WOODWARD    AND    MR.    QUICK. 


Enter  SERJEANT-AT-LAW,  and  ATTORNEY  following  and  giving  a 
paper. 

Serf.  WHAT  's  here  ! — a  vile  cramp  hand  !     I  cannot  see 
Without  my  spectacles. 

Att.  He  means  his  fee. 

Nay,  Mr.  Serjeant,  good  sir,  try  again.  [Gives  money. 

Serf.    The  scrawl  improves !  [more]  O  come,  't  is  pretty  plain. 
Hey  !  how  's  this  ?  Dibble  !  —  sure  it  cannot  be  ! 
A  poet's  brief  !  a  poet  and  a  fee  ! 

Att.    Yes,  sir  !  though  you  without  reward,  I  know, 
Would  gladly  plead  the  Muse's  cause. 

Serf.  So  !  —  so  ! 

Att.   And  if  the  fee  offends,  your  wrath  should  fall 
On  me. 

Serj.    Dear  Dibble,  no  offence  at  all. 

Att.    Some  sons  of  Phoebus  in  the  courts  we  meet, 

Serj.    And  fifty  sons  of  Phoebus  in  the  Fleet ! 

Att.    Nor  pleads  he  worse,  who  with  a  decent  sprig 
Of  bays  adorns  his  legal  waste  of  wig. 

Serj.    Full-bottom'd  heroes  thus,  on  signs,  unfurl 
A  leaf  of  laurel  in  a  grove  of  curl ! 

8s 


86  THE  RIVALS. 

Yet  tell  your  client  that,  in  adverse  days, 
This  wig  is  warmer  than  a  bush  of  bays. 

Att.    Do  you,  then,  sir,  my  client's  place  supply, 

Profuse  of  robe  and  prodigal  of  tie 

Do  you,  with  all  those  blushing  powers  of  face, 

And  wonted  bashful  hesitating  grace, 

Rise  in  the  court,  and  flourish  on  the  case.  [Exit. 

Serf.    For  practice  then  suppose — this  brief  will  show  it,  — 
Me,  Serjeant  Woodward,  —  counsel  for  the  poet. 
Used  to  the  ground,  I  know,  't  is  hard  to  deal 
With  this  dread  court,  from  whence  there 's  no  appeal ; 
No  tricking  here,  to  blunt  the  edge  of  law, 
Or,  damned  in  equity,  escape  by  flaw: 
"But  judgment  given,  your  sentence  must  remain  ; 
No  writ  of  error  lies  — to  Dmry-lanc  ! 

Yet  when  so  kind  you  seem,  'tis  past  dispute 
We  gain  some  favor,  if  not  costs  of  suit. 
No  spleen  is  here  !  I  see  no  hoarded  fury ;  — 

—  I  think  I  never  faced  a  milder  jury  ! 
Sad  else  our  plight !  where  frowns  are  transportation, 
A  hiss  the  gallows,  and  a  groan  damnation  ! 
But  such  the  public  candor,  without  fear 
My  client  waves  all  rigJit  of  challenge  here. 
No  newsman  from  our  session  is  dismiss'd, 
Nor  wit  nor  critic  we  scratch  off  the  list ; 
His  faults  can  never  hurt  another's  ease, 
His  crime,  at  worst,  a  bad  attempt  to  please  : 
Thus,  all  respecting,  he  appeals  to  all, 
And  by  the  general  voice  will  stand  or  fall. 


PROLOGUE. 

BY  THE   AUTHOR. 
SPOKEN    ON    THE    TENTH    NIGHT,    BY    MRS.    BULKLEY 


GRANTED  our  cause,  our  suit  and  trial  o'er, 
The  worthy  Serjeant  need  appear  no  more  : 
In  pleasing  I  a  different  client  choose, 
He  served  the  Poet  —  I  would  serve  the  Muse  : 
Like  him,  I  '11  try  to  merit  your  applause, 
A  female  counsel  in  a  female's  cause. 

Look  on  this  form,*  —  where  Humor,  quaint  and  sly, 
Dimples  the  cheek,  and  points  the  beaming  eye ; 
Where  gay  Invention  seems  to  boast  its  wiles 
In  amorous  hint,  and  half-triumphant  smiles ; 
While  her  light  mask  or  covers  Satire's  strokes, 
Or  hides  the  conscious  blush  her  wit  provokes. 

—  Look  on  her  well  —  does  she  seem  form'd  to  teach  ? 
Should  you  expect  to  hear  this  lady  preach  ? 
Is  gray  experience  suited  to  her  youth  ? 
Do  solemn  sentiments,  become  that  mouth  ? 
Bid  her  be  grave,  those  lips  should  rebel  prove 
To  every  theme  that  slanders  mirth  or  love. 

*  Pointing  to  the  figure  of  Comedy. 

87 


88  THE  RIVALS. 

Yet,  thus  adorn'd  with  every  graceful  art 

To  charm  the  fancy  and  yet  reach  the  heart 

Must  we  displace  her  ?     And  instead  advance 
The  Goddess  of  the  wof ul  countenance  — 
The  sentimental  Muse  !  —  Her  emblems  view, 
The  Pilgrim's  Progress,  and  a  sprig  of  rue ! 
View  her  —  too  chaste  to  look  like  flesh  and  blood  - 
Primly  portrayed  on  emblematic  wood  ! 
There,  fix'd  in  usurpation,  should  she  stand, 
She  '11  snatch  the  dagger  from  her  sister's  hand  : 
And  having  made  her  votaries  weep  a  flood, 
Good  heaven  !  she  '11  end  her  comedies  in  blood  — 
Bid  Harry  Woodward  break  poor  Dunstal's  crown  ; 
Imprison  Quick,  and  knock  Ned  Shuter  down ; 
While  sad  Barsanti,  weeping  o'er  the  scene, 
Shall  stab  herself  —  or  poison  Mrs.  Green.  — 

Such  dire  encroachments  to  prevent  in  time, 
Demands  the  critic's  voice  —  the  poet's  rhyme. 
Can  our  light  scenes  add  strength  to  holy  laws  ? 
Such  puny  patronage  but  hurts  the  cause  : 
Fair  Virtue  scorns  our  feeble  aid  to  ask ; 
And  moral  Truth  disdains  the  trickster's  mask. 
For  here  their  fav'rite  stands,*  whose  brow,  severe 
And  sad,  claims  Youth's  respect,  and  Pity's  tear ; 
Who,  when  oppress'd  by  foes  her  worth  creates, 
Can  point  a  poniard  at  the  Guilt  she  hates. 

*  Pointing  to  Tragedy. 


THE    RIVALS. 

A  COMEDY. 


ACT   I. 

SCENE   I.  —  A  Street  in  Bath. 
Enter  THOMAS  ;  he  crosses  the  Stage  ;  FAG  follows,  looking1  after  him. 

Fag.  WHAT  !  Thomas  !  —  Sure  't  is  he  !  —  What !  Thomas  ! 
Thomas  ! 

Thos.  Hey  !  —  Odd's  life  !  Mr.  Fag  !  —  give  us  your  hand,  my  old 
fellow-servant. 

Fag.  Excuse  my  glove,  Thomas  : —  I  'm  devilish  glad  to  see  you, 
my  lad.  Why,  my  prince  of  charioteers,  you  look  as  hearty  !  —  but 
who  the  deuce  thought  of  seeing  you  in  Bath  ? 

Thos.  Sure,  master,  Madam  Julia,  Harry,  Mrs.  Kate,  and  the 
postillion,  be  all  come. 

Fag.    Indeed ! 

Thos.  Ay,  master  thought  another  fit  of  the  gout  was  coming  to 
make  him  a  visit ;  —  so  he  'd  a  mind  to  gi't  the  slip,  and  whip!  we 
were  all  off  at  an  hour's  warning. 

Fag.  Ay,  ay,  hasty  in  everything,  or  it  would  not  be  Sir  Anthony 
Absolute ! 

Thos.  But  tell  us,  Mr.  Fag,  how  does  young  master  ?  Odd  !  Sir 
Anthony  will  stare  to  see  the  Captain  here  ! 

89 


90  THE  RIVALS. 

Fag.    I  do  not  serve  Captain  Absolute  now. 

Thos.    Why  sure  ! 

Fag.    At  present  I  am  employed  by  Ensign  Beverley. 

Thos.    I  doubt,  Mr.  Fag,  you  ha'n't  changed  for  the  better. 

Fag.    I  have  not  changed,  Thomas. 

Thos.    No  !     Why  did  n't  you  say  you  had  left  young  master  ? 

Fag.  No. — Well,  honest  Thomas,  I  must  puzzle  you  no  farther: 
—  briefly  then  —  Captain  Absolute  and  Ensign  Beverley  are  one  and 
the  same  person. 

Thos.    The  devil  they  are  ! 

Fag.  So  it  is  indeed,  Thomas ;  and  the  ensign  half  of  my  master 
being  on  guard  at  present  —  the  captain  has  nothing  to  do  with  me. 

Thos.  So,  so  !  —  What,  this  is  some  freak,  I  warrant !  —  Do  tell 
us,  Mr.  Fag,  the  meaning  o't  —  you  know  I  ha'  trusted  you. 

Fag.    You  '11  be  secret,  Thomas  ? 

Thos.    As  a  coach-horse. 

Fag.  Why  then  the  cause  of  all  this  is  —  LOVE.  —  Love,  Thomas, 
who  (as  you  may  get  read  to  you)  has  been  a  masquerader  ever 
since  the  days  of  Jupiter. 

Thos.  Ay,  ay  ;  —  I  guessed  there  was  a  lady  in  the  case :  —  but 
pray,  why  does  your  master  pass  only  for  ensign?  —  Now  if  he  had 
shammed  general  indeed 

Fag.  Ah  !  Thomas,  there  lies  the  mystery  o'  the  matter.  Hark'ee, 
Thomas,  my  master  is  in  love  with  a  lady  of  a  very  singular  taste ;  a 
lady  who  likes  him  better  as  a  half-pay  ensign  than  if  she  knew  he 
was  son  and  heir  to  Sir  Anthony  Absolute,  a  baronet  of  three  thou- 
sand a  year. 

Thos.  That  is  an  odd  taste  indeed !  —  But  has  she  got  the  stuff, 
Mr.  Fag  ?  Is  she  rich,  hey  ? 

Fag.    Rich  !     Why,  I  believe  she  owns  half  the  stocks  !     Zounds  : 


A    COMEDY.  91 

Thomas,  she  could  pay  the  national  debt  as  easily  as  I  could  my 
washerwoman!  She  has  a  lapclog  that  eats  out  of  gold,  —  she  feeds 
her  parrot  with  small  pearls,  —  and  all  her  thread-papers  are  made  of 
bank-notes ! 

Thos.  Bravo,  faith  !  —  Odd  !  I  warrant  she  has  a  set  of  thousands 
at  least :  but  does  she  draw  kindly  with  the  captain  ? 

Fag.    As  fond  as  pigeons. 

Thos.    May  one  hear  her  name  ? 

Fag.  Miss  Lydia  Languish.  —  But  there  is  an  old  tough  aunt  in 
the  way;  —  though,  by  the  by,  she  has  never  seen  my  master — for 
we  got  acquainted  with  miss  while  on  a  visit  in  Gloucestershire. 

Thos.  Well  —  I  wish  they  were  once  harnessed  together  in  matri- 
mony. —  But  pray,  Mr.  Fag,  what  kind  of  a  place  is  this  Bath  ?  —  I 
ha'  heard  a  deal  of  it  — here  's  a  mort  o'  merry-making,  hey  ? 

Fag.  Pretty  well,  Thomas,  pretty  well  —  't  is  a  good  lounge  ;  in 
the  morning  we  go  to  the  pump-room  (though  neither  my  master  nor 
I  drink  the  waters) ;  after  breakfast  we  saunter  on  the  parades,  or 
play  a  game  at  billiards ;  at  night  we  dance ;  but  damn  the  place,  I  'm 
tired  of  it  ;  their  regular  hours  stupefy  me  —  not  a  fiddle  nor  a  card 
after  eleven !  —  However,  Mr.  Faulkland's  gentleman  and  I  keep  it 
up  a  little  in  private  parties — I'll  introduce  you  there,  Thomas  — 
you  '11  like  him  much. 

Thos.  Sure  I  know  Mr.  Du-Peigne  —  you  know  his  master  is  to 
marry  Madam  Julia. 

Fag.  I  had  forgot.  —  But,  Thomas,  you  must  polish  a  little  — 
indeed  you  must.  —  Here  now  —  this  wig  !  —  What  the  devil  do  you 
do  with  a  wig,  Thomas  ?  —  None  of  the  London  whips  of  any  degree 
of  ton  wear  wigs  now. 

Thos.  More  's  the  pity !  more  's  the  pity,  I  say.  —  Odd's  life  ! 
when  I  heard  how  the  lawyers  and  doctors  had  took  to  their  own  hair, 


92  THE  RIVALS. 

I  thought  how  't  would  go  next:  —  Odd  rabbit  it!  when  the  fashion 
had  got  foot  on  the  bar,  I  guessed  'twould  mount  to  the  box!  —  but 
't  is  all  out  of  character,  believe  me,  Mr.  Fag :  and  look'ee,  I  '11  never 
gi1  up  mine —  the  lawyers  and  doctors  may  do  as  they  wilL 

Fag.    Well,  Thomas,  we  '11  not  quarrel  about  that. 

Thos.  Why,  bless  you,  the  gentlemen  of  they  professions  ben't  all 
of  a  mind  —  for  in  our  village  now,  thoff  Jack  Gauge,  the  exciseman 
has  ta'en  to  his  carrots,  there  's  little  Dick  the  farrier  swears  he  '11 
never  forsake  his  bob,  though  all  the  college  should  appear  with  their 
own  heads  ! 

Fag.  Indeed  !  well  said,  Dick  !  —  But  hold  !  —  mark !  —  mark  ! 
Thomas. 

Thos.    Zooks !  't  is  the  captain.  —  Is  that  the  lady  with  him  ? 

Fag.  No,  no,  that  is  Madam  Lucy,  my  master's  mistress's  maid. 
They  lodge  at  that  house  —  but  I  must  after  him  to  tell  him  the 
news. 

Thos.    Odd  !  he  's  giving  her  money  !  —  Well,  Mr.  Fag 

Fag.  Good-bye,  Thomas.  I  have  an  appointment  in  Gyde's  Porch 
this  evening  at  eight ;  meet  me  there,  and  we  '11  make  a  little  party. 

\Exeunt  severally. 


SCENE  II.  — A  Dtessing-room  in  MRS.  MALAPROP'S  Lodgings. 

LYDIA  sitting  on  a  sofa,  with  a  book  in  her  hand.     LUCY,  as  just 
returned  from  a  message. 

Lucy.   Indeed,  ma'am,  I  traversed  half  the  town  in  search  of  it ; 
I  don't  believe  there  's  a  circulating  library  in  Bath  I  ha'n't  been  at. 
Lyd.    And  could  not  you  get  The  Reward  of  Constancy  ? 
Lucy.    No,  indeed,  ma'am. 
Lyd.    Nor  The  Fatal  Connection  ? 


A    COMEDY.  93 

Lucy,    No,  indeed,  ma'am. 

Lyd.    Nor  The  Mistakes  of  the  Heart  ? 

Lucy.  Ma'am,  as  ill  luck  would  have  it,  Mr.  Bull  said  Miss  Sukey 
Saunter  had  just  fetched  it  away. 

Lyd.    Heigh-ho  !  —  Did  you  inquire  for  The  Delicate  Distress  f 

Lucy.  Or,  The  Memoirs  of  Lady  Woodfordf  Yes,  indeed,  ma'am. 
I  asked  everywhere  for  it ;  and  I  might  have  brought  it  from  Mr. 
Frederick's,  but  Lady  Slattern  Lounger,  who  had  just  sent  it  home, 
had  so  soiled  and  dog's-eared  it,  it  wa'n't  fit  for  a  Christian  to  read. 

Lyd.  Heigh-ho  !  —  Yes,  I  always  know  when  Lady  Slattern  has 
been  before  me.  She  has  a  most  observing  thumb ;  and,  I  believe, 
cherishes  her  nails  for  the  convenience  of  making  marginal  notes.  — 
Well,  child,  what  have  you  brought  me  ? 

Lucy.  Oh!  here,  ma'am.  —  [Taking  books  from  under  her  cloak, 
and  from  her  pockets •.]  This  is  The  Gordian  Knot, — and  this  Pere- 
grine Pickle.  Here  are  The  Tears  of  Sensibility  and  Humphrey 
Clinker.  This  is  The  Memoirs  of  a  Lady  of  Quality,  written  by 
herself,  and  here  the  second  volume  of  The  Sentimental  Journey. 

Lyd.    Heigh-ho  !  — What  are  those  books  by  the  glass  ? 

Lucy.  The  great  one  is  only  The  Whole  Duty  of  Man,  where  I 
press  a  few  blonds,  ma'am. 

Lyd.    Very  well  —  give  me  the  sal  volatile. 

Lucy.    Is  it  in  a  blue  cover,  ma'am  ? 

Lyd.    My  smelling-bottle,  you  simpleton  ! 

Lucy.    Oh,  the  drops;  —  here,  ma'am. 

Lyd.    Hold  !  — here  's  some  one  coming  —  quick,  see  who  it  is.  — 
Exit  LUCY.].     Surely  I  heard  my  cousin  Julia's  voice. 
Re-Enter  LUCY. 

Lucy.    Lud  !  ma'am,  here  is  Miss  Melville. 

Lyd.    Is  it  possible  !—  [Exit  LUCY. 


94  THE  RIVALS. 

Enter  JULIA. 

Lyd.  My  dearest  Julia,  how  delighted  am  I! — [Embrace.]  How 
unexpected  was  this  happiness  ! 

////.  True,  Lydia,  and  our  pleasure  is  the  greater.  —  But  what  has 
been  the  matter  ?  —  you  were  denied  to  me  at  first ! 

Lyd.  Ah,  Julia,  I  have  a  thousand  things  to  tell  you  !  —  But  first 
inform  me  what  has  conjured  you  to  Bath  ?  Is  Sir  Anthony 
here  ? 

Jul.  He  is  —  we  are  arrived  within  this  hour  —  and  I  suppose  he 
will  be  here  to  wait  on  Mrs.  Malaprop  as  soon  as  he  is  dressed. 

Lyd.  Then  before  we  are  interrupted,  let  me  impart  to  you  some 
of  my  distress !  —  I  know  your  gentle  nature  will  sympathize  with 
me,  though  your  prudence  may  condemn  me !  My  letters  have  in- 
formed you  of  my  whole  connection  with  Beverley !  but  I  have  lost 
him,  Julia !  My  aunt  has  discovered  our  intercourse  by  a  note  she 
intercepted,  and  has  confined  me  ever  since !  Yet,  would  you  believe 
it  ?  she  has  absolutely  fallen  in  love  with  a  tall  Irish  baronet  she  met 
one  night  since  we  have  been  here,  at  Lady  Macshuffle's  rout. 

////.    You  jest,  Lydia  ! 

Lyd.  No,  upon  my  word.  She  really  carries  on  a  kind  of  corre- 
spondence with  him,  tinder  a  feigned  name  though,  till  she  chooses 
to  be  known  to  him  ;  —  but  it  is  a  Delia  or  a  Celia,  I  assure  you. 

Jnl.    Then,  surely,  she  is  now  more  indulgent  to  her  niece. 

Lyd.  Quite  the  contrary.  Since  she  has  discovered  her  own 
frailty,  she  is  become  more  suspicious  of  mine.  Then  I  must  inform 
you  of  another  plague !  —  That  odious  Acres  is  to  be  in  Bath  to-day ; 
so  that  I  protest  I  shall  be  teased  out  of  all  spirits  ! 

Jnl.  Come,  come,  Lydia,  hope  for  the  best.  —  Sir  Anthony  shall 
use  his  interest  with  Mrs.  Malaprop. 

Lyd.    But  you  have  not  heard  the  worst.     Unfortunately  I  had 


A    COMEDY.  9$ 

quarrelled  with  my  poor  Beverley,  just  before  my  aunt  made  the 
discovery,  and  I  have  not  seen  him  since,  to  make  it  up. 

Jul.    What  was  his  offence  ? 

Lyd.  Nothing  at  all !  —  But  I  don't  know  how  it  was,  as  often  as 
we  had  been  together,  we  had  never  had  a  quarrel,  and,  somehow,  I 
was  afraid  he  would  never  give  me  an  opportunity.  So,  last  Thurs- 
day, I  wrote  a  letter  to  myself,  to  inform  myself  that  Beverley  was  at 
that  time  paying  his  addresses  to  another  woman.  I  signed  it  your 
friend  unknown,  showed  it  to  Beverley,  charged  him  with  his  false- 
hood, put  myself  in  a  violent  passion,  and  vowed  I  'd  never  see  him 
more. 

Jul.    And  you  let  him  depart  so,  and  have  not  seen  him  since? 

Lyd.  'Twas  the  next  day  my  aunt  found  the  matter  out.  I 
intended  only  to  have  teased  him  three  days  and  a  half,  and  now 
I  've  lost  him  forever. 

Jul.  If  he  is  as  deserving  and  sincere  as  you  have  represented 
him  to  me,  he  will  never  give  you  up  so.  Yet  consider,  Lydia,  you 
tell  me  he  is  but  an  ensign,  and  you  have  thirty  thousand  pounds. 

Lyd.  But  you  know  I  lose  most  of  my  fortune  if  I  marry  without 
my  aunt's  consent,  till  of  age  ;  and  that  is  what  I  have  determined 
to  do,  ever  since  I  knew  the  penalty.  Nor  could  I  love  the  man, 
who  would  wish  to  wait  a  day  for  the  alternative. 

Jul.    Nay,  this  is  caprice  ! 

Lyd.  What,  does  Julia  tax  me  with  caprice  ?  —  I  thought  her 
lover  Faulkland  had  inured  her  to  it. 

Jul.    I  do  not  love  even  his  faults. 

Lyd.    But  apropos  —  you  have  sent  to  him,  I  suppose  ? 

Jul.  Not  yet,  upon  my  word  —  nor  has  he  the  least  idea  of  my 
being  in  Bath.  Sir  Anthony's  resolution  was  so  sudden,  I  could  not 
inform  him  of  it. 


9  THE  RIVALS. 

Lyd.  Well,  Julia,  you  are  your  own  mistress  (though  under  the 
protection  of  Sir  Anthony),  yet  have  you,  for  this  long  year,  been  a 
slave  to  the  caprice,  the  whim,  the  jealousy  of  this  ungrateful  Faulk- 
land,  who  will  ever  delay  assuming  the  right  of  a  husband,  while  you 
suffer  him  to  be  equally  imperious  as  a  lover. 

Jul.  Nay,  you  are  wrong  entirely.  We  were  contracted  before 
my  father's  death.  That,  and  some  consequent  embarrassments, 
have  delayed  what  I  know  to  be  my  Faulkland's  most  ardent  wish. 
He  is  too  generous  to  trifle  on  such  a  point :  —  and  for  his  character, 
you  wrong  him  there  too.  No,  Lydia,  he  is  too  proud,  too*  noble  to 
be  jealous ;  if  he  is  captious,  't  is  without  dissembling ;  if  fretful, 
without  rudeness.  Unused  to  the  fopperies  of  love,  he  is  negligent 
of  the  little  duties  expected  from  a  lover  —  but  being  unhackneyed 
in  the  passion,  his  affection  is  ardent  and  sincere  ;  and  as  it  engrosses 
his  whole  soul,  he  expects  every  thought  and  emotion  of  his  mistress 
to  move  in  unison  with  his.  Yet,  though  his  pride  calls  for  this  full 
return,  his  humility  makes  him  undervalue  those  qualities  in  him 
which  would  entitle  him  to  it ;  and  not  feeling  why  he  should  be 
loved  to  the  degree  he  wishes,  he  still  suspects  that  he  is  not  loved 
enough.  '  This  temper,  I  must  own,  has  cost  me  many  unhappy 
hours  ;  but  I  have  learned  to  think  myself  his  debtor  for  those 
imperfections  which  arise  from  the  ardor  of  his  attachment. 

Lyd.  Well,  I  cannot  blame  you  for  defending  him.  But  tell  me 
candidly,  Julia,  had  he  never  saved  your  life,  do  you  think  you  should 
have  been  attached  to  him  as  you  are  ?  —  Believe  me,  the  rude  blast 
that  overset  your  boat  was  a  prosperous  gale  of  love  to  him. 

Jitl.  Gratitude  may  have  strengthened  my  attachment  to  Mr. 
Faulkland,  but  I  loved  him  before  he  had  preserved  me ;  yet  surely 
that  alone  were  an  obligation  sufficient. 

Lyd.    Obligation  !  why  a  water-spaniel  would  have  done  as  much  ! 


A    COMEDY.  97 

—  Well,  I  should  never  think  of  giving  my  heart  to  a  man  because 
he  could  swim. 

Jul.    Come,  Lydia,  you  are  too  inconsiderate. 

Lyd.    Nay,  I  do  but  jest.  —  What 's  here  ? 

Re-Enter  LUCY  iu  a  hurry. 

Lucy.  O  ma'am,  here  is  Sir  Anthony  Absolute  just  come  home 
with  your  aunt. 

Lyd.    They'll  not  come  here.  —  Lucy,  do  you  watch.    [.Ear// LUCY. 

Jul.  Yet  I  must  go.  Sir  Anthony  does  not  know  I  am  here, 
and  if  we  meet,  he  '11  detain  me,  to  show  me  the  town.  I  '11  take 
another  opportunity  of  paying  my  respects  to  Mrs.  Malaprop,  when 
she  shall  treat  me,  as  long  as  she  chooses,  with  her  select  words  so 
ingeniously  misapplied,  without  being  mispronounced. 
Re-Enter  LUCY. 

Lucy.    O  Lud  !  ma'am,  they  are  both  coming  up  stairs. 

Lyd.  Well,  I  '11  not  detain  you,  coz.  —  Adieu,  my  dear  Julia, 
I'm  sure  you  are  in  haste  to  send  to  Faulkland.  — There  —  through 
my  room  you  'II  find  another  staircase. 

Jul.    Adieu  !  [Embraces  LYDIA,  and  exit, 

Lyd.  Here,  my  dear  Lucy,  hide  these  books.  Quick,  quick. — 
Fling  Peregrine  Pickle  under  the  toilet  —  throw  Roderick  Random 
into  the  closet — put  The  Innocent  Adultery  into  The  Whole  Duty 
of  Man — thrust  Lord  Aimworth  under  the  sofa — cram  Ovid  behind 
the  bolster  —  there  —  put  the  Man  of  Feeling  into  your  pocket  —  so, 
so  —  now  lay  Mrs.  Chapone  in  sight,  and  leave  Fordyces  Sermons 
open  on  the  table. 

Lucy.    Oh  burn  it,  ma'am  !  the  hair-dresser  has  torn  away  as  far 

as  Proper  Pride. 

Lyd.  Nevermind  —  open  at  Sobriety. — Fling  me  Lord  Chester- 
field's Letters.  —  Now  for  'em.  [Exit  LUCY. 


98  THE  RIVALS. 

Enter  Mrs.  MALAPROP  and  Sir  ANTHONY  ABSOLUTE. 

Mrs.  Mai.  There,  Sir  Anthony,  there  sits  the  deliberate  simple- 
ton who  wants'  to  disgrace  her  family,  and  lavish  herself  on  a  fellow 
not  worth  a  shilling. 

Lyd.    Madam,  I  thought  you  once 

Mrs.  Mai.  You  thought,  miss  !  I  don't  know  any  business  you 
have  to  think  at  all  —  thought  does  not  become  a  young  woman. 
But  the  point  we  would  request  of  you  is,  that  you  will  promise  to 
forget  this  fellow  —  to  illiterate  him,  I  say,  quite  from  your  memory. 

Lyd.  Ah,  madam !  our  memories  are  independent  of  our  wills. 
It  is  not  so  easy  to  forget. 

Mrs.  Mai.  But  I  say  it  is,  miss ;  there  is  nothing  on  earth  so 
easy  as  to  forget,  if  a  person  chooses  to  set  about  it.  I  'm  sure  I  have 
as  much  forgot  your  poor  dear  uncle  as  if  he  had  never  existed  — 
and  I  thought  it  my  duty  so  to  do ;  and  let  me  tell  you,  Lydia,  these 
violent  memories  don't  become  a  young  woman. 

Sir  Anth.  Why  sure  she  won't  pretend  to  remember  what  she's 
ordered  not !  —  ay,  this  comes  of  her  reading  ! 

Lyd.  What  crime,  madam,  have  I  committed,  to  be  treated 
thus  ? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Now  don't  attempt  to  extirpate  yourself  from  the 
matter ;  you  know  I  have  proof  controvertible  of  it.  —  But  tell  me, 
Will  you  promise  to  do  as  you  're  bid  ?  Will  you  take  a  husband  of 
your  friends'  choosing  ? 

Lyd.  Madam,  I  must  tell  you  plainly,  that  had  I  no  preference 
for  any  one  else,  the  choice  you  have  made  would  be  my  aversion. 

Mrs.  Mai.  What  business  have  you,  miss,  with  preference  and 
aversion  !  They  don't  become  a  young  woman  ;  and  you  ought  to 
know,  that  as  both  always  wear  off,  't  is  safest  in  matrimony  to  begin 
with  a  little  aversion.  I  am  sure  I  hated  your  poor  dear  uncle  before 


A    COMEDY.  99 

marriage  as  if  he'd  been  a  blackamoor  —  and  yet,  miss,  you  are  sen- 
sible what  a  wife  I  made  !  —  and  when  it  pleased  Heaven  to  release 
me  from  him,  'tis  unknown  what  tears  I  shed  !  —  But  suppose  we 
were  going  to  give  you  another  choice,  will  you  promise  us  to  give 
up  this  Beverley  ? 

Lyd.  Could  I  belie  my  thoughts  so  far  as  to  give  that  promise, 
my  actions  would  certainly  as  far  belie  my  words. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Take  yourself  to  your  room.  —  You  are  fit  company 
for  nothing  but  your  own  ill-humors. 

Lyd.   Willingly,  ma'am.  —  I  cannot  change  for  the  worse.      [Exit. 

Mrs.  Mai.    There  's  a  little  intricate  hussy  for  you  ! 

Sir  Anth.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  ma'am,  —  all  this  is  the 
natural  consequence  of  teaching  girls  to  read.  Had  I  a  thousand 
daughters,  by  Heaven  !  I  'd  as  soon  have  them  taught  the  black  art 
as  their  alphabet ! 

Mrs.  Mai.  Nay,  nay,  Sir  Anthony,  you  are  an  absolute  misan- 
thropy. 

Sir  Ant 'k.  In  my  way  hither,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  I  observed  your 
niece's  maid  coming  forth  from  a  circulating  library  !  —  She  had  a 
book  in  each  hand  —  they  were  half-bound  volumes,  with  marble 
covers !  —  from  that  moment  I  guessed  how  full  of  duty  I  should  see 
her  mistress  ! 

Mrs.  Mai.    Those  are  vile  places,  indeed  ! 

Sir  Anth.  Madam,  a  circulating  library  in  a  town  is  as  an  ever- 
green tree  of  diabolical  knowledge  !  It  blossoms  through  the  year  ! 
—  and  depend  on  it,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  that  they  who  are  so  fond  of 
handling  the  leaves  will  long  for  the  fruit  at  last. 

Mrs.  Mai.    Fy,  fy,  Sir  Anthony !  you  surely  speak  laconically. 

Sir  Anth.  Why,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  in  moderation,  now,  what  would 
you  have  a  woman  know  ? 


100  THE  RIVALS. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Observe  me,  Sir  Anthony.  I  would  by  no  means  wish 
a  daughter  of  mine  to  be  a  progeny  of  learning ;  I  don't  think  so 
much  learning  becomes  a  young  woman  ;  for  instance,  I  would  never 
let  her  meddle  with  Greek,  or  Hebrew,  or  Algebra,  or  Simony,  or 
Fluxions,  or  Paradoxes,  or  such  inflammatory  branches  of  learning  — 
neither  would  it  be  necessary  for  her  to  handle  any  of  your  mathe- 
matical, astronomical,  diabolical  instruments  —  But,  Sir  Anthony,  I 
would  send  her,  at  nine  years  old,  to  a  boarding-school,  in  order  to 
learn  a  little  ingenuity  and  artifice.  Then,  sir,  she  should  have  a 
supercilious  knowledge  in  accounts ;  —  and  as  she  grew  up,  I  would 
have  her  instructed  in  geometry,  that  she  might  know  something  of 
the  contagious  countries; — but  above  all,  Sir  Anthony,  she  should 
be  mistress  of  orthodoxy,  that  she  might  not  mis-spell,  and  mis-pro- 
nounce words  so  shamefully  as  girls  usually  do ;  and  likewise  that 
she  might  reprehend  the  true  meaning  of  what  she  is  saying.  This, 
Sir  Anthony,  is  what  I  would  have  a  woman  know;  —  and  I  don't 
think  there  is  a  superstitious  article  in  it. 

Sir  Anth.  Well,  well,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  I  will  dispute  the  point 
no  further  with  you  ;  though  I  must  confess  that  you  are  a  truly 
moderate  and  polite  arguer,  for  almost  every  third  word  you  say  is  on 
my  side  of  the  question.  But,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  to  the  more  important 
point  in  debate  —  you  say  you  have  no  objection  to  my  proposal  ? 

Mrs.  Mai.  None,  I  assure  you.  I  am  under  no  positive  engage- 
ment with  Mr.  Acres,  and  as  Lydia  is  so  obstinate  against  him, 
perhaps  your  son  may  have  better  success. 

Sir  Anth.  Well,  madam,  I  will  write  for  the  boy  directly.  He 
knows  not  a  syllable  of  this  yet,  though  I  have  for  some  time  had 
the  proposal  in  my  head.  He  is  at  present  with  his  regiment. 

Mrs.  Mai.  We  have  never  seen  your  son,  Sir  Anthony ;  but  I 
hope  no  objection  on  his  side. 


A    COMEDY.  10 1 

Sir  Anth.  Objection! — let  him  object  if  he  dare!  —  No,  no, 
Mrs.  Malaprop,  Jack  knows  that  the  least  demur  puts  me  in  a  frenzy 
directly.  My  process  was  always  very  simple  —  in  their  younger 
days  'twas  "Jack,  do  this  ;"  —  if  he  demurred,  I  knocked  him  down 

—  and    if    he   grumbled   at    that,    I    always    sent    him    out    of    the 
room. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Ay,  and  the  properest  way,  o'  my  conscience !  — 
nothing  is  so  conciliating  to  young  people  as  severity. — Well,  Sir 
Anthony,  I  shall  give  Mr.  Acres  his  discharge,  and  prepare  Lydia  to 
receive  your  son's  invocations  ;  —  and  I  hope  you  will  represent  her 
to  the  captain  as  an  object  not  altogether  illegible. 

Sir  Anth.  Madam,  I  will  handle  the  subject  prudently.  —  Well,  I 
must  leave  you ;  and  let  me  beg  you,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  to  enforce  this 
matter  roundly  to  the  girl.  —  Take  my  advice  —  keep  a  tight  hand  : 
if  she  rejects  this  proposal,  clap  her  under  lock  and  key ;  and  if  you 
were  just  to  let  the  servants  forget  to  bring  her  dinner  for  three  or 
four  days,  you  can't  conceive  how  she  'd  come  about. 

[Exit  SIR  ANTH. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Well,  at  any  rate  I  shall  be  glad  to  get  her  from  under 
my  intuition.  She  has  somehow  discovered  my  partiality  for  Sir 
Lucius  O'Trigger  —  sure,  Lucy  can't  have  betrayed  me  !  —  No,  the 
girl  is  such  a  simpleton,  I  should  have  made  her  confess  it.  —  Lucy  ! 

—  Lucy  !  —  [Calls.]     Had  she  been  one  of  your   artificial   ones,  I 
should  never  have  trusted  her. 

Re-Enter  LUCY. 
Lucy.    Did  you  call,  ma'am  ? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Yes,  girl.  —  Did  you  see  Sir  Lucius  while  you  was 
out? 

Lucy.   No,  indeed,  ma'am,  not  a  glimpse  of  him. 

Mrs.  Mai.    You  are  sure,  Lucy,  that  you  never  mentioned 


102  THE  RIVALS. 

Lucy.    Oh  Gemini !  I  'd  sooner  cut  my  tongue  out. 

Mrs.  Mai.    Well,  don't  let  your  simplicity  be  imposed  on. 

Lucy.    No,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Mai.  So,  come  to  me  presently,  and  I  '11  give  you  another 
letter  to  Sir  Lucius  ;  but  mind,  Lucy  —  if  ever  you  betray  what  you 
are  entrusted  with  (unless  it  be  other  people's  secrets  to  me),  you 
forfeit  my  malevolence  forever  ;  and  your  being  a  simpleton  shall  be 
no  excuse  for  your  locality.  [Exit  MRS.  MAL. 

Liicy.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  —  So,  my  dear  Simplicity,  let  me  give  you  a 
little  respite.  —  [Altering  her  manner :]  Let  girls  in  my  station  be  as 
fond  as  they  please  of  appearing  expert,  and  knowing  in  their 
trusts ;  commend  me  to  a  mask  of  silliness  and  a  pair  of  sharp  eyes 
for  my  own  interest  under  it  !  —  Let  me  see  to  what  account  have  I 
turned  my  simplicity  lately.  —  [Looks  at  a  paper.}  For  abetting  Miss 
Lydia  LangnisJi  in  a  design  of  running  away  with  an  ensign  !  —  in 
money,  sundry  times,  twelve  pounds  twelve  ;  gowns,  jive  ;  hats,  ruffles, 
caps,  &c.  &c.,  numberless  ! — From  tJie  said  ensign,  within  this  last 
month,  six  guineas  and  a  half. — about  a  quarter's  pay!  —  Item, 
from  Mrs.  Malaprop,  for  betraying  the  young  people  to  her — when  I 
found  matters  were  likely  to  be  discovered  —  two  guineas,  and  a  black 
padusoy.  —  Item,  from  Mr.  Acres,  for  carrying  divers  letters  —  which 
I  never  delivered  —  two  guineas,  and  a  pair  of  buckles.  —  Item,  from 
Sir  Lucius  O*  Tngger,  three  crowns,  two  gold  pocket-pieces,  and  a  silver 
snuff-box !  —  Well  done,  Simplicity!  —  Yet  I  was  forced  to  make  my 
Hibernian  believe  that  he  was  corresponding,  not  with  the  aunt,  but 
with  the  niece:  for  though  not  over  rich,  I  found  he  had  too  much 
pride  and  delicacy  to  sacrifice  the  feelings  of  a  gentleman  to  the 
necessities  of  his  fortune.  [Exit. 


A    COMEDY.  103 


ACT    II. 

SCENE  I.  —  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE'S  Lodgings. 
CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE  and  FAG. 

Fag.  Sir,  while  I  was  there  Sir  Anthony  came  in :  I  told  him, 
you  had  sent  me  to  inquire  after  his  health,  and  to  know  if  he  was  at 
leisure  to  see  you. 

Abs.   And  what  did  he  say,  on  hearing  that  I  was  at  Bath  ? 

Fag.  Sir,  in  my  life  I  never  saw  an  elderly  gentleman  more 
astonished !  He  started  back  two  or  three  paces,  rapped  out  a  dozen 
inter] ectural  oaths,  and  asked  what  the  devil  had  brought  you  here. 

Abs.    Well,  sir,  and  what  did  you  say  ? 

Fag.  Oh,  I  lied,  sir  —  I  forget  the  precise  lie  ;  but  you  may  depend 
on  't,  he  got  no  truth  from  me.  Yet,  with  submission,  for  fear  of 
blunders  in  future,  I  should  be  glad  to  fix  what  has  brought  us  to 
Bath  ;  in  order  that  we  may  lie  a  little  consistently.  Sir  Anthony's 
servants  were  curious,  sir,  very  curious  indeed. 

Abs.   You  have  said  nothing  to  them ? 

Fag.  Oh,  not  a  word,  sir,  —  not  a  word !  Mr.  Thomas,  indeed, 
the  coachman  (whom  I  take  to  be  the  discreetest  of  whips) 

Abs.   'Sdeath  !  —  you  rascal !  you  have  not  trusted  him  ! 

Fag.  Oh,  no,  sir  —  no  —  no  —  not  a  syllable,  upon  my  veracity  ! 
—  he  was,  indeed,  a  little  inquisitive;  but  I  was  sly,  sir — devilish 
sly!  My  master  (said  I),  honest  Thomas,  (you  know,  sir,  one  says 
honest  to  one's  inferiors,)  is  come  to  Bath  to  recruit  —  yes  sir,  I 
said  to  recruit  —  and  whether  for  men,  money,  or  constitution, 
you  know,  sir,  is  nothing  to  him,  nor  anyone  else. 


104  THE  RIVALS. 

Abs.    Well,  recruit  will  do  —  let  it  be  so. 

Fag.  Oh,  sir,  recruit  will  do  surprisingly — indeed,  to  give  the 
thing  an  air,  I  told  Thomas,  that  your  honor  had  already  enlisted  five 
disbanded  chairmen,  seven  minority  waiters,  and  thirteen  billiard- 
markers. 

Abs.    You  blockhead,  never  say  more  than  is  necessary. 

Fag.  I  beg  pardon,  sir  —  I  beg  pardon  —  but,  with  submission,  a 
lie  is  nothing  unless  one  supports  it.  Sir,  whenever  I  draw  on  my 
invention  for  a  good  current  lie,  I  always  forge  indorsements  as  well 
as  the  bill. 

Abs.  Well,  take  care  you  don't  hurt  your  credit,  by  offering  too 
much  security.  —  Is  Mr.  Faulkland  returned  ? 

Fag.    He  is  above,  sir,  changing  his  dress. 

Abs.  Can  you  tell  whether  he'has  been  informed  of  Sir  Anthony's 
and  Miss  Melville's  arrival  ? 

Fag.  .1  fancy  not,  sir ;  he  has  seen  no  one  since  he  came  in  but 
his  gentleman,  who  was  with  him  at  Bristol. —  I  think,  sir,  I  hear 
Mr.  Faulkland  coming  down 

Abs.    Go  tell  him  I  am  here. 

Fag.  Yes,  sir.  —  \GoingI\  I  beg  pardon,  sir,  but  should  Sir 
Anthony  call,  you  will  do  me  the  favor  to  remember  that  we  are 
recruiting,  if  you  please. 

Abs.   Well,  well. 

Fag.  And,  in  tenderness  to  my  character,  if  your  honor  could 
bring  in  the  chairmen  and  waiters,  I  should  esteem  it  as  an  obliga- 
tion ;  for  though  I  never  scruple  to  lie  to  serve  my  master,  yet  it 
hurts  one's  conscience  to  be  found  out.  [Exit. 

Abs.  Now  for  my  whimsical  friend  —  if  he  does  not  know 
that  his  mistress  is  here,  I'll  tease  him  a  little  before  I  tell 
him  — 


A    COMEDY.  105 

Enter  FAULKLAND. 

Faulkland,  you're  welcome  to  Bath  again  ;  you  are  punctual  in  your 
return. 

Faulk.  Yes  ;  I  had  nothing  to  detain  me,  when  I  had  finished 
the  business  I  went  on.  Well,  what  news  since  I  left  you  ?  How 
stand  matters  between  you  and  Lydia  ? 

Abs.  Faith,  much  as  they  were ;  I  have  not  seen  her  since  our 
quarrel ;  however,  I  expect  to  be  recalled  every  hour. 

Faulk.    Why  don't  you  persuade  her  to  go  off  with  you  at  once  ? 

Abs.  What,  and  lose  two-thirds  of  her  fortune  ?  you  forget  that, 
my  friend.  —  No,  no,  I  could  have  brought  her  to  that  long  ago. 

Faulk.  Nay  then,  you  trifle  too  long  —  if  you  are  sure  of  her, 
propose  to  the  aunt  in  your  own  character,  and  write  to  Sir  Anthony 
for  his  consent. 

Abs.  Softly,  softly;  for  though  I  am  convinced  my  little  Lydia 
would  elope  with  me  as  Ensign  Beverley,  yet  I  am  by  no  means  cer- 
tain that  she  would  take  me  with  the  impediment  of  our  friends' 
consent,  a  regular  humdrum  wedding,  and  the  reversion  of  a  good 
fortune  on  my  side:  no,  no;  I  must  prepare  her  gradually  for  the 
discovery,  and  make  myself  necessary  to  her,  before  I  risk  it.  — 
Well,  but  Faulkland,  you  '11  dine  with  us  to-day  at  the  hotel  ? 

Faulk.  Indeed  I  cannot ;  I  am  not  in  spirits  to  be  of  such  a 
party. 

Abs.  By  heavens  !  I  shall  forswear  your  company.  You  are  the 
most  teasing,  captious,  incorrigible  lover  !  —  Do  love  like  a  man. 

Faulk.    I  own  I  am  unfit  for  company. 

Abs.  Am  not  /  a  lover ;  ay,  and  a  romantic  one  too  ?  Yet  do  I 
carry  everywhere  with  me  such  a  confounded  farrago  of  doubts, 
fears,  hopes,  wishes,  and  all  the  flimsy  furniture  of  a  country  miss's 
brain  ! 


106  THE  RIVALS. 

Faulk.  Ah  !  Jack,  your  heart  and  soul  are  not,  like  mine,  fixed 
immutably  on  one  only  object.  You  throw  for  a  large  stake,  but 
losing,  you  could  stake  and  throw  again  :  —  but  I  have  set  my  sum 
of  happiness  on  this  cast,  and  not  to  succeed  were  to  be  stripped 
of  all. 

Abs.  But,  for  Heaven's  sake !  what  grounds  for  apprehension 
can  your  whimsical  brain  conjure  up  at  present  ? 

Faulk.  What  grounds  for  apprehension,  did  you  say?  Heavens! 
are  there  not  a  thousand  !  I  fear  for  her  spirits  —  her  health  —  her 
life.  —  My  absence  may  fret  her ;  her  anxiety  for  my  return,  her 
fears  for  me  may  oppress  her  gentle  temper  :  and  for  her  health, 
does  not  every  hour  bring  me  cause  to  be  alarmed  ?  If  it  rains, 
some  shower  may  even  then  have  chilled  her  delicate  frame  !  If 
the  wind  be  keen,  some  rude  blast  may  have  affected  her !  The  heat 
of  noon,  the  dews  of  the  evening,  may  endanger  the  life  of  her,  for 
whom  only  I  value  mine.  O  Jack !  when  delicate  and  feeling  souls 
are  separated,  there  is  not  a  feature  in  the  sky,  not  a  movement  of 
the  elements,  not  an  aspiration  of  the  breeze,  but  hints  some  cause  for 
a  lover's  apprehension  ! 

Abs.  Ay,  but  we  may  choose  whether  we  will  take  the  hint  or 
not.  —  So,  then,  Faulkland,  if  you  were  convinced  that  Julia  were 
well  and  in  spirits,  you  would  be  entirely  content  ? 

Faulk.  I  should  be  happy  beyond  measure  —  I  am  anxious  only 
for  that. 

Abs.  Then  to  cure  your  anxiety  at  once  —  Miss  Melville  is  in 
perfect  health,  and  is  at  this  moment  in  Bath. 

Faulk.    Nay,  Jack  —  don't  trifle  with  me. 

Abs.    She  is  arrived  here  with  my  father  within  this  hour. 

Faulk.    Can  you  be  serious  ? 

Abs.    I  thought  you  knew  Sir  Anthony  better  than  to  be  sur- 


A    COMEDY.  lO/ 

prised  at  a  sudden  whim  of  this  kind.  —  Seriously,  then,  it  is  as  I  tell 
you  —  upon  my  honor. 

Faitlk.  My  dear  friend  !  —  Hollo,  Du  Peigne  !  my  hat.  —  My 
dear  Jack  —  now  nothing  on  earth  can  give  me  a  moment's 

uneasiness. 

Re-Enter  FAG. 

Fag.    Sir,  Mr.  Acres,  just  arrived,  is  below. 

Abs.  Stay,  Faulkland,  this  Acres  lives  within  a  mile  of  Sir 
Anthony,  and  he  shall  tell  you  how  your  mistress  has  been  ever 
since  you  left  her.  —  Fag,  show  the  gentleman  up.  \Exit  FAG. 

Faulk.    What,  is  he  much  acquainted  in  the  family  ? 

Abs.  Oh,  very  intimate  :  I  insist  on  your  not  going :  besides,  his 
character  will  divert  you. 

Faulk.    Well,  I  should  like  to  ask  him  a  few  questions. 

Abs.  He  is  likewise  a  rival  of  mine  —  that  is,  of  my  other  self's 
for  he  does  not  think  his  friend  Captain  Absolute  ever  saw  the  lady 
in  question  ;  and  it  is  ridiculous  enough  to  hear  him  complain  to  me 
of  one  Beverley,  a  concealed  skulking  rival,  who 

Faulk.    Hush  !  —  he  's  here. 

Enter  ACRES. 

Acres.  Ha !  my  dear  friend,  noble  captain,  and  honest  Jack,  how 
do'st  thou  ?  just  arrived,  faith,  as  you  see. —  Sir,  your  humble  ser- 
vant. —  Warm  work  on  the  roads,  Jack  !  5 —  Odds  whips  and  wheels  ! 
I  've  travelled  like  a  comet,  with  a  tail  of  dust  all  the  way  as  long  as 
the  Mall. 

Abs.  Ah  !  Bob,  you  are  indeed  an  eccentric  planet,  but  we  know 
your  attraction  hither.  —  Give  me  leave  to  introduce  Mr.  Faulkland 
to  you  ;  Mr.  Faulkland,  Mr.  Acres. 

Acres.  Sir,  I  am  most  heartily  glad  to  see  you :  sir,  I  solicit  your 
connections.  —  Hey,  Jack  —  what,  this  is  Mr.  Faulkland,  who 


108  THE  RIVALS. 

Abs.   Ay,  Bob,  Miss  Melville's  Mr.  Faulkland. 

Acres.  Od'so !  she  and  your  father  can  be  but  just  arrived  before 
me :  —  I  suppose  you  have  seen  them.  Ah !  Mr.  Faulkland,  you 
are  indeed  a  happy  man. 

Faulk.  I  have  not  seen  Miss  Melville  yet,  sir ;  —  I  hope  she 
enjoyed  full  health  and  spirits  in  Devonshire  ? 

Acres.  Never  knew  her  better  in  my  life,  sir, —  never  better. 
Odds  blushes  and  blooms !  she  has  been  as  healthy  as  the  German 
Spa. 

Faulk.    Indeed!  —  I  did  hear  that  she  had  been  a  little  indisposed. 

Acres.  False,  false,  sir  —  only  said  to  vex  you  :  quite  the  reverse, 
I  assure  you. 

Faulk.  There,  Jack,  you  see  she  has  the  advantage  of  me ;  I  had 
almost  fretted  myself  ill. 

Abs.  Now  are  you  angry  with  your  mistress  for  not  having  been 
sick  ? 

Faulk.  No,  no,  you  misunderstand  me :  yet  surely  a  little  trifling 
indisposition  is  not  an  unnatural  consequence  of  absence  from  those 
we  love.  —  Now  confess  —  is  n't  there  something  unkind  in  this 
violent,  robust,  unfeeling  health  ? 

Abs.  Oh,  it  was  very  unkind  of  her  to  be  well  in  your  absence,  to 
be  sure ! 

Acres.    Good  apartments,  Jack. 

Faulk.  Well,  sir,  but  you  were  saying  that  Miss  Melville  has 
been  so  exceedingly  well  —  what  then,  she  has  been  merry  and  gay, 
I  suppose  ?  —  Always  in  spirits  —  hey  ? 

Acres.  Merry,  odds  crickets !  she  has  been  the  belle  and  spirit  of 
the  company  wherever  she  has  been  —  so  lively  and  entertaining ! 
so  full  of  wit  and  humor ! 

Faulk.    There,  Jack,  there.  —  Oh,  by  my  soul !  there  is  an  innate 


A    COMEDY.  109 

levity  in  woman,  that  nothing  can  overcome.  —  What !  happy,  and  I 
away ! 

Abs.  Have  done  !  —  How  foolish  this  is  !  just  now  you  were  only 
apprehensive  for  your  mistress's  spirits. 

Faulk.  Why,  Jack,  have  I  been  the  joy  and  spirit  of  the  com- 
pany ? 

Abs.    No  indeed,  you  have  not. 

Faulk.    Have  I  been  lively  and  entertaining  ? 

Abs.    Oh,  upon  my  word,  I  acquit  you. 

Faulk.    Have  I  been  full  of  wit  and  humor  ? 

Abs.  No,  faith,  to  do  you  justice,  you  have  been  confoundedly 
stupid  indeed. 

Acres.    What 's  the  matter  with  the  gentleman  ? 

Abs.  He  is  only  expressing  his  great  satisfaction  at  hearing  that 
Julia  has  been  so  well  and  happy  —  that's  all  —  hey,  Faulkland  ? 

Faulk.  Oh  !  I  am  rejbiced  to  hear  it  —  yes,  yes,  she  has  a  happy 
disposition  ! 

Acres.  That  she  has  indeed  —  then  she  is  so  accomplished  —  so 
sweet  a  voice  —  so  expert  at  her  harpsichord  —  such  a  mistress  of 
flat  and  sharp,  squallante,  rumblante,  and  quiverante  !  —  There  -was 
this  time  month  —  Odds  minims  and  crotchets  !  how  she  did  chirrup 
at  Mrs.  Piano's  concert  ! 

Faulk.  There  again,  what  say  you  to  this  ?  you  see'  she  has  been 
all  mirth  and  song  —  not  a  thought  of  me  ! 

Abs.    Pho  !  man,  is  not  music  the  food  of  love  ? 

Faulk.  Well,  well,  it  may  be  so.  —  Pray,  Mr. ,  what 's  his 

damned  name  ?  —  Do  you  remember  what  songs  Miss  Melville 
sung  ? 

Acres.    Not  I  indeed. 

Abs.    Stay,   now,   they   were    some   pretty  melancholy  purling- 


HO  THE  RIVALS. 

stream  airs,  I  warrant ;  perhaps  you  may  recollect ; — did  she  sing, 
When  absent  from  my  soul's  delight  ? 

Acres.    No,  that  wa'n't  it. 

Abs.    Or,  Go,  gentle  gales  !  —  Go,  gentle  gales  !  [Sings. 

Acres.  Oh,  no  !  nothing  like  it.  Odds  !  now  I  recollect  one  of 
them  —  My  heart 's  my  own,  my  will  is  free.  [Sings. 

Faulk.  Fool !  fool  that  I  am  !  to  fix  all  my  happiness  on  such  a 
trifler !  'Sdeath  !  to  make  herself  the  pipe  and  ballad-monger  of  a 
circle !  to  soothe  her  light  heart  with  catches  and  glees  !  —  What 
can  you  say  to  this,  sir  ? 

Abs.  Why,  that  I  should  be  glad  to  hear  my  mistress  had  been  so 
merry,  sir. 

Faulk.  Nay,  nay,  nay  —  I'm  not  sorry  that  she  has  been  happy 
—  no,  no,  I  am  glad  of  that  —  I  would  not  have  had  her  sad  or 
sick  —  yet  surely  a  sympathetic  heart  would  have  shown  itself 
even  in  the  choice  of  a  song  —  she  might  have  been  temperately 
healthy,  and  somehow,  plaintively  gay;  —  but  she  has  been  danc- 
ing too,  I  doubt  not ! 

Acres.    What  does  the  gentleman  say  about  dancing  ? 

Abs.    He  says  the  lady  we  speak  of  dances  as  well  as  she  sings. 

Acres.   Ay,  truly,  does  she  —  there  was  at  our  last  race  ball 

Faulk.  Hell  and  the  devil !  There  !  there  —  I  told  you  so  !  I 
told  you  so  !  Oh !  she  thrives  in  my  absence  !  —  Dancing !  but 
her  whole  feelings  have  been  in  opposition  with  mine;  —  I  have 
been  anxious,  silent,  pensive,  sedentary  —  my  days  have  been  hours 
of  care,  my  nights  of  watchfulness.  —  She  has  been  all  health!  spirit! 
laugh  !  song  !  dance  !  —  Oh  !  damned,  damned  levity ! 

Abs.  For  Heaven's  sake,  Faulkland,  don't  expose  yourself  so  !  — 
Suppose  she  has  danced,  what  then  ?  —  does  not  the  ceremony  of 
society  often  oblige 


A    COMEDY.  Ill 

Faulk.  Well,  well,  I  '11  contain  myself  —  perhaps  as  you  say  —  for 
form  sake.  —  What,  Mr.  Acres,  you  were  praising  Miss  Melville's 
manner  of  dancing  a  minuet  —  hey  ? 

Acres.  Oh,  I  dare  insure  her  for  that  —  but  what  I  was  going  to 
speak  of  was  her  country-dancing.  Odds  swimmings !  she  has  such 
an  air  with  her ! 

Faulk.  Now  disappointment  on  her!  —  Defend  this,  Absolute; 
why  don't  you  defend  this?  —  Country-dances!  jigs  and  reels!  am  I 
to  blame  now  ?  A  minuet  I  could  have  forgiven  —  I  should  not  have 
minded  that  —  I  say  I  should  not  have  regarded  a  minuet  —  but 
country-dances  !  —  Zounds  !  had  she  made  one  in  a  cotillion  —  I 
believe  I  could  have  forgiven  even  that  —  but  to  be  monkey-led  for  a 
night !  —  to  run  the  gauntlet  through  a  string  of  amorous  palming 
puppies  !  —  to  show  paces  like  a  managed  filly  !  —  Oh,  Jack,  there 
never  can  be  but  one  man  in  the  world  whom  a  truly  modest  and 
delicate  woman  ought  to  pair  with  in  a  country-dance ;  and,  even 
then,  the  rest  of  the  couples  should  be  her  great-uncles  and  aunts ! 

Abs.    Ay,  to  be  sure  !  —  grandfathers  and  grandmothers  ! 

Faulk.  If  there  be  but  one  vicious  mind  in  the  set  't  will  spread 
like  a  contagion  —  the  action  of  their  pulse  beats  to  the  lascivious 
movement  of  the  jig  —  their  quivering,  warm-breathed  sighs  impreg- 
nate the  very  air  —  the  atmosphere  becomes  electrical  to  love,  and 
each  amorous  spark  darts  through  every  link  of  the  chain  !  —  I  must 
leave  you  —  I  own  I  am  somewhat  flurried  —  and  that  confounded 
looby  has  perceived  it.  [Going. 

Abs.  Nay,  but  stay,  Faulkland,  and  thank  Mr.  Acres  for  his  good 
news. 

Faulk.    Damn  his  news  !  [Exit. 

Abs.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  poor  Faulkland,  five  minutes  since  —  "  noth- 
ing on  earth  could  give  him  a  moment's  uneasiness!" 


112  THE  RIVALS. 

Acres.  The  gentleman  wa'n't  angry  at  my  praising  his  mistress, 
was  he  ? 

Abs.    A  little  jealous,  I  believe,  Bob. 

Acres.  You  don't  say  so?  Ha,  ha!  jealous  of  me  —  that's  a 
good  joke. 

Abs.  There 's  nothing  strange  in  that,  Bob ;  let  me  tell  you,  that 
sprightly  grace  and  insinuating  manner  of  yours  will  do  some  mis- 
chief among  the  girls  here. 

Acres.  Ah  !  you  joke  —  ha  !  ha  !  mischief  !  —  ha  !  ha  !  but  you 
know  I  am  not  my  own  property,  my  dear  Lydia  has  forestalled  me. 
She  could  never  abide  me  in  the  country,  because  I  used  to  dress  so 
badly  —  but  odds  frogs  and  tambours  !  I  shan't  take  matters  so  here, 
now  ancient  madam  has  no  voice  in  it :  I  '11  make  my  old  clothes 
know  who 's  master.  I  shall  straightway  cashier  the  hunting-frock, 
and  render  my  leather  breeches  incapable.  My  hair  has  been  in 
training  some  time. 

Abs.    Indeed  ! 

Acres.  Ay  —  and  tho'ff  the  side  curls  are  a  little  restive,  my 
hind-part  takes  it  very  kindly. 

Abs.    Oh,  you  '11  polish,  I  doubt  not. 

Acres.  Absolutely  I  propose  so  —  then  if  I  can  find  out  this 
Ensign  Beverley,  odds  triggers  and  flints  !  I  '11  make  him  know  the 
difference  o't. 

Abs.  Spoke  like  a  man  !  But  pray,  Bob,  I  observe  you  have  got 
an  odd  kind  of  a  new  method  of  swearing 

Acres.  Ha !  ha  !  you  've  taken  notice  of  it  —  't  is  genteel  is  n't  it  ? 
—  I  didn't  invent  it  myself  though  ;  but  a  commander  in  our  militia, 
a  great  scholar,  I  assure  you,  says  that  there  is  no  meaning  in  the 
common  oaths,  and  that  nothing  but  their  antiquity  makes  them 
respectable  ;  —  because,  he  says,  the  ancients  would  never  stick  to 


A    COMEDY.  113 

an  oath  or  two,  but  would  say,  by  Jove  !  or  by  Bacchus  !  or  by  Mars ! 
or  by  Venus  !  or  by  Pallas !  according  to  the  sentiment  :  so  that  to 
swear  with  propriety,  says  my  little  major,  the  oath  should  be  an 
echo  to  the  sense  ;  and  this  we  call  the  oath  referential  or  sentimen- 
tal swearing —  ha  !  ha  !  't  is  genteel,  is  n't  it  ? 

Abs.  Very  genteel,  and  very  new,  indeed  !  —  and  I  dare  say  will 
supplant  all  other  figures  of  imprecation. 

Acres.    Ay,  ay,  the  best  terms  will  grow  obsolete.  —  Damns  have 

had  their  day. 

Re-Enter  FAG. 

Fag.  Sir,  there  is  a  gentleman  below  desires  to  see  you.  —  Shall  I 
show  him  into  the  parlor  ? 

Abs.    Ay  —  you  may. 

Acres.    Well,  I  must  be  gone 

Abs.    Stay  ;  who  is  it,  Fag  ? 

Fag.    Your  father,  sir. 

Abs.    You  puppy,  why  did  n't  you  show  him  up  directly  ? 

[Exit  FAG. 

Acres.  You  have  business  with  Sir  Anthony.  —  I  expect  a  mes- 
sage from  Mrs.  Malaprop  at  my  lodgings.  I  have  sent  also  to 
my  dear  friend  Sir  Lucius  O' Trigger.  Adieu,  Jack !  we  must 
meet  at  night,  when  you  shall  give  me  a  dozen  bumpers  to  little 
Lydia. 

Abs.  That  I  will  with  all  my  heart.  —  [Exit  ACRES.]  Now  for  a 
parental  lecture  —  I  hope  he  has  heard  nothing  of  the  business  that 
has  brought  me  here  —  I  wish  the  gout  had  held  him  fast  in  Devon- 
shire, with  all  my  soul  ! 

Enter  SIR  ANTHONY  ABSOLUTE. 

Sir,  I  am  delighted  to  see  you  here  :  looking  so  well !  your  sudden 
arrival  at  Bath  made  me  apprehensive  for  your  health. 


114  THE  RIVALS. 

Sir  Anth.  Very  apprehensive,  I  dare  say,  Jack.  —  What,  you  are 
recruiting  here,  hey  ? 

Abs.    Yes,  sir,  I  am  on  duty. 

Sir  Anth.  Well,  Jack,  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  though  I  did  not 
expect  it,  for  I  was  going  to  write  you  on  a  little  matter  of  business. 
—  Jack,  I  have  been  considering  that  I  grew  old  and  infirm,  and 
shall  probably  not  trouble  you  long. 

Abs.  Pardon  me,  sir,  I  never  saw  you  look  more  strong  and 
hearty ;  and  I  pray  frequently  that  you  may  continue  so. 

Sir  Anth.  I  hope  your  prayers  may  be  heard,  with  all  my  heart. 
Well  then,  Jack,  I  have  been  considering  that  I  am  so  strong  and 
hearty  I  may  continue  to  plague  you  a  long  time.  —  Now,  Jack,  I  am 
sensible  that  the  income  of  your  commission,  and  what  I  have 
hitherto  allowed  you,  is  but  a  small  pittance  for  a  lad  of  your  spirit. 

Abs.    Sir,  you  are  very  good. 

Sir  Anth.  And  it  is  my  wish,  while  yet  I  live,  to  have  my  boy 
make  some  figure  in  the  world.  I  have  resolved,  therefore,  to  fix 
you  at  once  in  a  noble  independence. 

Abs.  Sir,  your  kindness  overpowers  me  —  such  generosity  makes 
the  gratitude  of  reason  more  lively  than  the  sensations  even  of  filial 
affection. 

Sir  Anth.  I  am  glad  you  are  so  sensible  of  my  attention  —  and 
you  shall  be  master  of  a  large  estate  in  a  few  weeks. 

Abs.  Let  my  future  life,  sir,  speak  my  gratitude ;  I  cannot  express 
the  sense  I  have  of  your  munificence.  —  Yet,  sir,  I  presume  you 
would  not  wish  me  to  quit  the  army  ? 

Sir  Anth.    Oh,  that  shall  be  as  your  wife  chooses. 

Abs.    My  wife,  sir ! 

Sir  Anth.  Ay,  ay,  settle  that  between  you  —  settle  that  be- 
tween you. 


A    COMEDY.  115 

Abs.    A  wife,  sir,  did  you  say  ? 

Sir  Anth.    Ay,  a  wife  —  why,  did  not  I  mention  her  before  ? 

Abs.    Not  a  word  of  her,  sir. 

Sir  Antli.  Odd  so  !  —  I  must  n't  forget  her  though.  —  Yes,  Jack, 
the  independence  I  was  talking  of  is  by  marriage  —  the  fortune 
is  saddled  with  a  wife  —  but  I  suppose  that  m.akes  no  difference. 

Abs.    Sir  !  sir  !  —  you  amaze  me  ! 

Sir  Anth.  Why,  what  the  devil 's  the  matter  with  the  fool  ?  Just 
now  you  were  all  gratitude  and  duty. 

Abs.  I  was,  sir,  —  you  talked  to  me  of  independence  and  a  for- 
tune, but  not  a  word  of  a  wife. 

Sir  Anth.  Why — what  difference  does  that  make?  Odds  life, 
sir !  if  you  have  the  estate,  you  must  take  it  with  the  live-stock  on 
it,  as  it  stands. 

Abs.  If  my  happiness  is  to  be  the  price,  I  must  beg  leave  to 
decline  the  purchase.  —  Pray,  sir,  who  is  the  lady  ? 

Sir  Anth.  What 's  that  to  you,  sir  ?  Come,  give  me  your  promise 
to  love,  and  to  marry  her  directly. 

Abs.  Sure,  sir,  this  is  not  very  reasonable  to  summon  my  affec- 
tions for  a  lady  I  know  nothing  of  ! 

Sir  Anth.  I  am  sure,  sir,  't  is  more  unreasonable  in  you  to  object 
to  a  lady  you  know  nothing  of. 

Abs.  Then,  sir,  I  must  tell  you  plainly  that  my  inclinations  are 
fixed  on  another  —  my  heart  is  engaged  to  an  angel. 

Sir  Anth.  Then  pray  let  it  send  an  excuse.  It  is  very  sorry  — 
but  business  prevents  its  waiting  on  her. 

Abs.    But  my  vows  are  pledged  to  her. 

Sir  Anth.  Let  her  foreclose,  Jack;  let  her  foreclose;  they  are 
not  worth  redeeming ;  besides,  you  have  the  angel's  vows  in  ex- 
change, I  suppose  ;  so  there  can  be  no  loss  there. 


Il6  THE  RIVALS. 

Abs.  You  must  excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  tell  you,  once  for  all,  that  in 
this  point  I  cannot  obey  you. 

Sir  Anth.  Hark'ee,  Jack  ;  —  I  have  heard  you  for  some  time  with 
patience  —  I  have  been  cool — quite  cool;  but  take  care — you 
know  I  am  compliance  itself  —  when  I  am  not  thwarted  ;  —  no  one 
more  easily  led  —  when  I  have  my  own  way  ;  —  but  don't  put  me  in 
a  frenzy. 

Abs.    Sir,  I  must  repeat  it  —  in  this  I  cannot  obey  you. 

Sir  Anth.  Now  damn  me  !  if  ever  I  call  you  Jack  again  while  I 
live  ! 

Abs.    Nay,  sir,  but  hear  me. 

Sir  Anth.  Sir,  I  won't  hear  a  word  —  not  a  word !  not  one  word  ! 
so  give  me  your  promise  by  a  nod  —  and  I  '11  tell  you  what,  Jack  — 
I  mean,  you  dog  —  if  you  don't,  by 

Abs.  What,  sir,  promise  to  link  myself  to  some  mass  of  ugliness ! 
to 

Sir  Anth.  Zounds  !  sirrah  !  the  lady  shall  be  as  ugly  as  I  choose  : 
she  shall  have  a  hump  on  each  shoulder !  she  shall  be  as  crooked  as 
the  Crescent ;  her  one  eye  shall  roll  like  the  bull's  in  Cox's  Museum  ; 
she  shall  have  a  skin  like  a  mummy,  and  the  beard  of  a  Jew  —  she 
shall  be  all  this,  sirrah  !  —  yet  I  will  make  you  ogle  her  all  day,  and 
sit  up  all  night  to  write  sonnets  on  her  beauty. 

Abs.    This  is  reason  and  moderation  indeed ! 

Sir  Anth.  None  of  your  sneering,  puppy!  no  grinning,  jacka- 
napes ! 

Abs.  Indeed,  sir,  I  never  was  in  a  worse  humor  for  mirth  in  my 
life. 

Sir  Anth.    Tis    false,    sir,    I    know  you    are    laughing    in    your 
sleeve ;  I  know  you  '11  grin  when  I  am  gone,  sirrah ! 
-Abs.    Sir,  I  hope  I  know  my  duty  better. 


A    COMEDY.  II 7 

Sir  Anth.  None  of  your  passion,  sir !  none  of  your  violence,  if 
you  please  !  —  It  won't  do  with  me,  I  promise  you. 

Abs.    Indeed,  sir,  I  never  was  cooler  in  my  life. 

Sir  Anth.  'T  is  a  confounded  lie  !  —  I  know  you  are  in  a  passion 
in  your  heart ;  I  know  you  are,  you  hypocritical  young  dog !  but  it 
won't  do. 

Abs.    Nay,  sir,  upon  my  word 

Sir  Anth.  So  you  will  fly  out !  can't  you  be  cool  like  me  ?  What 
the  devil  good  can  passion  do  ?  —  Passion  is  of  no  service,  you 
impudent,  insolent,  overbearing  reprobate !  —  There,  you  sneer 
again  !  —  don't  provoke  me  !  —  but  you  rely  upon  the  mildness  of 
my  temper  —  you  do,  you  dog  !  you  play  upon  the  meekness  of  my 
disposition !  —  Yet  take  care  —  the  patience  of  a  saint  may  be 
overcome  at  last !  —  but  mark !  I  give  you  six  hours  and  a  half  to 
consider  of  this :  if  you  then  agree,  without  any  condition,  to  do 
everything  on  earth  that  I  choose,  why  —  confound  you!  I  may  in 
time  forgive  you.  —  If  not,  zounds  !  don't  enter  the  same  hemisphere 
with  me !  don't  dare  to  breathe  the  same  air  or  use  the  same  light 
with  me  ;  but  get  an  atmosphere  and  sun  of  your  own  !  I  '11  strip 
you  of  your  commission ;  I  '11  lodge  a  five-and-threepence  in  the 
hands  of  trustees,  and  you  shall  live  on  the  interest.  —  I ']!  disown 
you,  I  '11  disinherit  you,  I  '11  unget  you  !  and  damn  me  !  if  ever  I  call 
you  Jack  again  !  \Exit  Sir  AntJi. 

Abs.  Mild,  gentle,  considerate  father  —  I  kiss  your  hands!  — 
What  a  tender  method  of  giving  his  opinion  in  these  matters  Sir 
Anthony  has  !  I  dare  not  trust  him  with  the  truth.  —  I  wonder  what 
old  wealthy  hag  it  is  that  he  wants  to  bestow  on  me  !  —  Yet  he  mar- 
ried himself  for  love !  and  was  in  his  youth  a  bold  intriguer,  and  a 
gay  companion  ! 


Il8  THE  RIVALS. 

Re-Enter  FAG. 

Fag.  Assuredly,  sir,  your  father  is  wrath  to  a  degree;  he  comes 
down  stairs  eight  or  ten  steps  at  a  time  —  muttering,  growling,  and 
thumping  the  banisters  all  the  way  :  I  and  the  cook's  dog  stand 
bowing  at  the  door  —  rap!  he  gives  me  a  stroke  on  the  head  with 
his  cane  ;  bids  me  carry  that  to  my  master ;  then  kicking  the  poor 
turnspit  into  the  area,  damns  us  all,  for  a  puppy  triumvirate!  —  Upon 
my  credit,  sir,  were  I  in  your  place,  and  found  my  father  such  very 
bad  company,  I  should  certainly  drop  his  acquaintance. 

Ads.  Cease  your  impertinence,  sir,  at  present.  —  Did  you  come  in 
for  nothing  more  ?  —  Stand  out  of  the  way. 

[Pushes  him  aside,  and  exit. 

Fag.  Soh !  Sir  Anthony  trims  my  master :  he  is  afraid  to  reply 
to  his  father  —  then  vents  his  spleen  on  poor  Fag! — When  one  is 
vexed  by  one  person,  to  revenge  one's  self  on  another,  who  happens 
to  come  in  the  way,  is  the  vilest  injustice!  Ah!  it  shows  the  worst 

temper  —  the  basest 

Enter  ERRAND  BOY. 

Boy.    Mr.  Fag !  Mr.  Fag  !  your  master  calls  you. 

Fag.  Well,  you  little  dirty  puppy,  you  need  not  bawl  so !  —  The 
meanest  disposition  !  the 

Boy.    Quick,  quick,  Mr.  Fag  ! 

Fag.  Quick !  quick !  you  impudent  jackanapes !  am  I  to  be 
commanded  by  you  too  ?  you  little  impertinent,  insolent,  kitchen- 
bred - 

\Exit  kicking  and  beating  him. 


A    COMEDY.  119 

SCENE  II.  —  The  North  Parade. 

Enter  LUCY. 

Lucy.  So  —  I  shall  have  another  rival  to  add  .to  my  mistress's  list 
—  Captain  Absolute.  However,  I  shall  not  enter  his  name  till  my 
purse  has  received  notice  in  form.  Poor  Acres  is  dismissed  !  — 
Well,  I  have  done  him  a  last  friendly  office,  in  letting  him  know  that 
Beverley  was  here  before  him.  —  Sir  Lucius  is  generally  more  punc- 
tual, when  he  expects  to  hear  from  his  dear  Dalia,  as  he  calls  her :  I 
wonder  he 's  not  here !  —  I  have  a  little  scruple  of  conscience  from 
this  deceit ;  though  I  should  not  be  paid  so  well,  if  my  hero  knew 
that  Delia  was  near  fifty,  and  her  own  mistress. 

Enter  SIR  Lucius  O'TRIGGER. 

Sir  Luc.  Ha !  my  little  ambassadress  —  upon  my  conscience,  I 
have  been  looking  for  you ;  I  have  been  on  the  South  Parade  this 
half  hour. 

Lucy.  [Speaking  simply.~\  O  gemini !  and  I  have  been  waiting 
for  your  worship  here  on  the  North. 

Sir  Luc.  Faith  !  —  may  be  that  was  the  reason  we  did  not  meet ; 
and  it 's  very  comical  too,  how  you  could  go  out  and  I  not  see  you  — 
for  I  was  only  taking  a  nap  at  the  Parade  Coffee-house,  and  I  chose 
the  window  on  purpose  that  I  might  not  miss  you. 

Lucy.  My  stars  !  Now  I  'd  wager  a  sixpence  I  went  by  while 
you  were  asleep. 

Sir  Luc.  Sure  enough  it  must  have  been  so — and  I  never  dreamt 
it  was  so  late,  till  I  waked.  Well,  but  my  little  girl,  have  you  got 
nothing  for  me  ? 

Lucy.    Yes,  but  I  have  —  I  've  got  a  letter  for  you  in  my  pocket. 

Sir  Luc.  O  faith!  I  guessed  you  weren't  come  empty-handed  — 
well  —  let  me  see  what  the  dear  creature  says. 


120  THE  KIVALS. 

Lucy.    There,  Sir  Lucius.  [Gives  him  a  letter. 

Sir  Luc.  [Reads.]  Sir — there  is  of  ten  a  sudden  incentive  impulse 
in  love,  that  has  a  greater  induction  tJian  years  of  domestic  combina- 
tion :  such  was  the  commotion  I  felt  at  t lie  first  superfluous  view  of  Sir 
Lucius  O'  Trigger.  —  Very'  pretty,  upon  my  word.  —  Female  punctu- 
ation forbids  me  to  say  more,  yet  let  me  add,  that  it  will  give  me  joy 
infallible  to  find  Sir  Lucius  worthy  tlie  last  criterion  of  my  affections. 

DELIA. 

Upon  my  conscience  !  Lucy,  your  lady  is  a  great  mistress  of  language. 
Faith,  she's  quite  the  queen  of  the  dictionary!  —  for  the  devil  a  word 
dare  refuse  coming  to  her  call  —  though  one  would  think  it  was  quite 
out  of  hearing. 

Lucy.    Ay,  sir,  a  lady  of  her  experience 

Sir  Luc.    Experience  ?  what,  at  seventeen  ? 

Lucy.  O  true,  sir  —  but  then  she  reads  so  —  my  stars!  how  she 
will  read  off  hand ! 

Sir  Luc.  Faith,  she  must  be  very  deep  read  to  write  this  way  — 
though  she  is  rather  an  arbitrary  writer  too  —  for  here  are  a  great 
many  poor  words  pressed  into  the  service  of  this  note  that  would  get 
their  habeas  corpus  from  any  court  in  Christendom. 

Lucy.    Ah  !  Sir  Lucius,  if  you  were  to  hear  how  she  talks  of  you  ! 

Sir  Luc.  Oh,  tell  her  I  '11  make  her  the  best  husband  in  the 
world,  and  Lady  O'Trigger  into  the  bargain  !  —  But  we  must  get  the 
old  gentlewoman's  consent — and  do  everything  fairly. 

Lucy.  Nay,  Sir  Lucius,  I  thought  you  wa'n't  rich  enough  to  be 
so  nice ! 

Sir  Luc.  Upon  my  word,  young  woman,  you  have  hit  it :  —  I  am 
so  poor,  that  I  can't  afford  to  do  a  dirty  action.  —  If  I  did  not 
want  money,  I  'd  steal  your  mistress  and  her  fortune  with  a  great 
deal  of  pleasure.  —  However,  my  pretty  girl,  [Gives  her  money] 


A    COMEDY.  121 

here  's  a  little  something  to  buy  you  a  ribbon  ;  and  meet  me  in  the 
evening,  and  I  '11  give  you  an  answer  to  this.  So,  hussy,  take  a  kiss 
beforehand  to  put  you  in  mind.  [Kisses  her. 

Lttcy.  O  Lud  !  Sir  Lucius  —  I  never  seed  such  a  gemman.  My 
lady  won't  like  you  if  you  're  so  impudent. 

Sir  LTIC.  Faith  she  will,  Lucy  !  —  That  same  —  pho  !  what 's  the 
name  of  it  ?  —  modesty  —  is  a  quality  in  a  lover  more  praised  by  the 
women  than  liked ;  so,  if  your  mistress  asks  you  whether  Sir  Lucius 
ever  gave  you  a  kiss,  tell  her  fifty  —  my  dear. 

Lucy.    What,  would  you  have  me  tell  her  a  lie  ? 

Sir  Luc.    Ah,  then,  you  baggage  !  I  '11  make  it  a  truth  presently. 

Lucy.    For  shame  now  !  here  is  some  one  coming. 

Sir  Luc.    Oh,  faith,  I  '11  quiet  your  conscience  ! 

[Sees  Fag.  —  Exit,  humming  a  tune. 
Enter  FAG. 

Fag.    So,  so,  ma'am  !     I  humbly  beg  pardon. 

Lucy.    O  Lud  !  now  Mr.  Fag  —  you  flurry  one  so. 

Fag.  Come,  come,  Lucy,  here 's  no  one  by  —  so  a  little  less  sim- 
plicity, with  a  grain  or  two  more  sincerity,  if  you  please.  —  You  play 
false  with  us,  madam.  —  I  saw  you  give  the  baronet  a  letter.  —  My 
master  shall  know  this  —  and  if  he  don't  call  him  out,  I  will. 

Lucy.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  you  gentlemen's  gentlemen  are  so  hasty.  — 
That  letter  was  from  Mrs.  Malaprop,  simpleton.  —  She  is  taken  with 
Sir  Lucius's  address. 

Fag.  How  !  what  tastes  some  people  have  !  —  Why,  I  suppose  I 
have  walked  by  her  window  a  hundred  times.  —  But  what  says  our 
young  lady  ?  any  message  to  my  master  ? 

Lucy.  Sad  news,  Mr.  Fag.  —  A  worse  rival  than  Acres !  Sir 
Anthony  Absolute  has  proposed  his  son. 

Fag.    What,  Captain  Absolute  ? 


122  THE  RIVALS. 

Lucy.    Even  so  —  I  overheard  it  all. 

Fag.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  very  good,  faith.  Good-bye,  Lucy,  I  must 
away  with  this  news. 

Lucy.  Well,  you  may  laugh  —  but  it  is  true,  I  assure  you.  — 
[Going.]  But,  Mr.  Fag,  tell  your  master  not  to  be  cast  down  by  this. 

Fag.    Oh,  he  '11  be  so  disconsolate  ! 

Lucy.  And  charge  him  not  to  think  of  quarrelling  with  young 
Absolute. 

Fag.    Never  fear  !  never  fear ! 

Lucy.    Be  sure  —  bid  him  keep  up  his  spirits. 

Fag.    We  will  —  we  will.  [Exeunt  severally. 


A    COMEDY.  123 


ACT    III. 

SCENE  I.  —  The  North  Parade. 
Enter  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE. 

Abs.  'T  is  just  as  Fag  told  me,  indeed.  Whimsical  enough,  faith  ! 
My  father  wants  to  force  me  to  marry  the  very  girl  I  am  plotting  to 
run  away  with !  He  must  not  know  of  my  connection  with  her  yet 
awhile.  He  has  too  summary  a  method  of  proceeding  in  these  mat- 
ters. However,  I  '11  read  my  recantation  instantly.  My  conversion 
is  something  sudden,  indeed — but  I  can  assure  him  it  is  very  sincere. 
So,  so  —  here  he  comes.  He  looks  plaguy  gruff.  {Steps  aside. 

Enter  SIR  ANTHONY  ABSOLUTE. 

Sir  Anth.  No  —  I  '11  die  sooner  than  forgive  him.  Die,  did  I 
say  ?  I  '11  live  these  fifty  years  to  plague  him.  At  our  last  meeting, 
his  impudence  had  almost  put  me  out  of  temper.  An  obstinate, 
passionate,  self-willed  boy  !  Who  can  he  take  after  ?  This  is  my 
return  for  getting  him  before  all  his  brothers  and  sisters!  —  for 
putting  him,  at  twelve  years  old,  into  a  marching  regiment,  and 
allowing  him  fifty  pounds  a  year,  besides  his  pay,  ever  since !  But 
I  have  done  with  him  ;  he  's  anybody's  son  for  me.  I  never  will  see 
him  more,  never  —  never — never. 

Abs.    {Aside,  coming  forward.}    Now  for  a  penitential  face. 

Sir  Anth.    Fellow,  get  out  of  my  way  ! 

Abs.    Sir,  you  see  a  penitent  before  you. 

Sir  Anth.    I  see  an  impudent  scoundrel  before  me. 

Abs.  A  sincere  penitent.  I  am  come,  sir,  to  acknowledge  my 
error,  and  to  submit  entirely  to  your  will. 


124  THE  RIVALS. 

Sir  Anth.    What 's  that  ? 

Abs.  I  have  been  revolving,  and  reflecting,  and  considering  on 
your  past  goodness,  and  kindness,  and  condescension  to  me. 

Sir  Anth.    Well,  sir  ? 

Abs.  I  have  been  likewise  weighing  and  balancing  what  you  were 
pleased  to  mention  concerning  duty,  and  obedience,  and  authority. 

Sir  Anth.    Well,  puppy  ? 

Abs.  Why  then,  sir,  the  result  of  my  reflections  is  —  a  resolution 
to  sacrifice  every  inclination  of  my  own  to  your  satisfaction. 

Sir  Anth.  Why  now  you  talk  sense  —  absolute  sense  —  I  never 
heard  anything  more  sensible  in  my  life.  Confound  you  !  you  shall 
be  Jack  again. 

Abs.    I  am  happy  in  the  appellation. 

Sir  Anth.  W;hy  then  Jack,  my  dear  Jack,  I  will  now  inform  you 
who  the  lady  really  is.  Nothing  but  your  passion  and  violence, 
you  silly  fellow,  prevented  my  telling  you  at  first.  Prepare,  Jack, 
for  wonder  and  rapture  —  prepare.  What  think  you  of  Miss  Lydia 
Languish? 

Abs.    Languish  !     What,  the  Languishes  of  Worcestershire  ? 

Sir  Anth.  Worcestershire  !  no.  Did  you  never  meet  Mrs.  Mala- 
prop  and  her  niece,  Miss  Languish,  who  came  into  our  country  just 
before  you  were  last  ordered  to  your  regiment  ? 

Abs.  Malaprop !  Languish !  I  don't  remember  ever  to  have 
heard  the  names  before.  Yet,  stay  —  I  think  I  do  recollect  some- 
thing. Languish !  Languish !  She  squints,  don't  she  ?  A  little 
red-haired  girl  ? 

Sir  Anth.    Squints  !     A  red-haired  girl !     Zounds  !  no. 

Abs.    Then  I  must  have  forgot ;  it  can't  be  the  same  person. 

Sir  Anth.  Jack !  Jack !  what  think  you  of  blooming,  love-breath- 
ing seventeen  ? 


A    COMEDY.  125 

Abs.  As  to  that,  sir,  I  am  quite  indifferent.  If  I  can  please  you 
in  the  matter,  't  is  all  I  desire.  . 

Sir  Anth.  Nay,  but  Jack,  such  eyes !  such  eyes !  so  innocently 
wild  !  so  bashfully  irresolute  !  not  a  glance  but  speaks  and  kindles 
some  thought  of  love  !  Then,  Jack,  her  cheeks  !  her  cheeks,  Jack ! 
so  deeply  blushing  at  the  insinuations  of  her  tell-tale  eyes!  Then, 
Jack,  her  lips !  O  Jack,  lips  smiling  at  their  own  discretion ;  and  if 
not  smiling,  more  sweetly  pouting ;  more  lovely  in  sullenness ! 

Abs.    That 's  she  indeed.     Well  done,  old  gentleman.  [Aside. 

Sir  Anth.    Then,  Jack,  her  neck  !     O  Jack  !  Jack! 

Abs.    And  which  is  to  be  mine,  sir,  the  niece  or  the  aunt  ? 

Sir  Anth.  Why,  you  unfeeling,  insensible  puppy,  I  despise  you  ! 
When  I  was  of  your  age,  such  a  description  would  have  made  me  fly 
like  a  rocket !  The  aunt,  indeed  !  Odds  life  !  when  I  ran  away  with 
your  mother,  I  would  not  have  touched  anything  old  or  ugly  to  gain 
an  empire. 

Abs..  Not  to  please  your  father,  sir  ? 

Sir  Anth.  To  please  my  father  !  zounds  !  not  to  please  —  O,  my 
father  —  odd  so!  —  yes  —  yes;  if  my  father  indeed  had  desired  — 
that 's  quite  another  matter.  Though  he  wa'n't  the  indulgent  father 
that  I  am,  Jack. 

Abs.    I  dare  say  not,  sir. 

Sir  Anth.  But,  Jack,  you  are  not  sorry  to  find  your  mistress  is  so 
beautiful  ? 

Abs.  Sir,  I  repeat  it  —  if  I  please  you  in  this  affair,  'tis  all  I 
desire.  Not  that  I  think  a  woman  the  worse  for  being  handsome  ; 
but,  sir,  if  you  please  to  recollect,  you  before  hinted  something  about 
a  hump  or  two,  one  eye,  and  a  few  more  graces  of  that  kind  —  now, 
without  being  very  nice,  I  own  I  should  rather  choose  a  wife  of  mine 
to  have  the  usual  number  of  limbs,  and  a  limited  quantity  of  back  : 


126  THE   RIVALS. 

and  though  one  eye  may  be  very  agreeable,  yet  as  the  prejudice  has 
always  run  in  favor  of  two,  I  would  not  wish  to  affect  a  singularity  in 
that  article. 

Sir  Anth.  What  a  phlegmatic  sot  it  is  !  Why,  sirrah,  you  're  an 
anchorite  !  —  a  vile,  insensible  stock.  You  a  soldier  !  —  you  're  a 
walking  block,  fit  only  to  dust  the  company's  regimentals  on !  Odds 
life !  I  have  a  great  mind  to  marry  the  girl  myself. 

Abs.  I  am  entirely  at  your  disposal,  sir :  if  you  should  think  of 
addressing  Miss  Languish  yourself,  I  suppose  you  would  have  me 
marry  the  aunt ;  or  if  you  should  change  your  mind  and  take  the  old 
lady — 't  is  the  same  to  me  — I  '11  marry  the  niece. 

Sir  Anth.  Upon  my  word,  Jack,  thou  'rt  either  a  very  great  hypo- 
crite, or  —  but  come,  I  know  your  indifference  on  such  a  subject 
must  be  all  a  lie  —  I'm  sure  it  must  —  come,  now  —  damn  your 
demure  face!  —  come,  confess,  Jack  —  you  have  been  lying  —  ha'n't 
you  ?  You  have  been  playing  the  hypocrite,  hey  !  —  I  '11  never 
forgive  you,  if  you  ha'n't  been  lying  and  playing  the  hypocrite. 

Abs.  I  'm  sorry,  sir,  that  the  respect  and  duty  which  I  bear  to  you 
should  be  so  mistaken. 

Sir  Anth.  Hang  your  respect  and  duty !  But  come  along  with 
me,  I  '11  write  a  note  to  Mrs.  Malaprop,  and  you  shall  visit  the  lady 
directly.  Her  eyes  shall  be  the  Promethean  torch  to  you  —  come 
along,  I  '11  never  forgive  you,  if  you  don't  come  back  stark  mad  with 
rapture  and  impatience  —  if  you  don't,  egad,  I  will  marry  the  girl 
myself !  \Exeunt. 


A    COMEDY.  127 

SCENE  II. — JULIA'S  Dressing-room. 
FAULKLAND  discovered  alone. 

Fanlk.  They  told  me  Julia  would  return  directly ;  I  wonder  she 
is  not  yet  come !  How  mean  does  this  captious,  unsatisfied  temper 
of  mine  appear  to  my  cooler  judgment  !  Yet  I  know  not  that  I 
indulge  it  in  any  other  point ;  but  on  this  one  subject,  and  to  this 
one  subject,  whom  I  think  I  love  beyond  my  life,  I  am  ever  ungen- 
erously fretful  and  madly  capricious!  I  am  conscious  of  it — yet 
I  cannot  correct  myself !  What  tender,  honest  joy  sparkled  in  her 
eyes  when  we  met !  how  delicate  was  the  warmth  of  her  expressions  ! 
I  was  ashamed  to  appear  less  happy  —  though  I  had  come  resolved 
to  wear  a  face  of  coolness  and  upbraiding.  Sir  Anthony's  presence 
prevented  my  proposed  expostulations  :  yet  I  must  be  satisfied  that 
she  has  not  been  so  very  happy  in  my  absence.  She  is  coming ! 
Yes  !  —  I  know  the  nimbleness  of  her  tread,  when  she  thinks  her 
impatient  Faulkland  counts  the  moments  of  her  stay. 
Enter  JULIA. 

Jul.    I  had  not  hoped  to  see  you  again  so  soon. 

Faulk.  Could  I,  Julia,  be  contented  with  my  first  welcome  — 
restrained  as  we  were  by  the  presence  of  a  third  person  ? 

Jul.  O  Faulkland,  when  your  kindness  can  make  me  thus  happy, 
let  me  not  think  that  I  discovered  something  of  coldness  in  your  first 
salutation. 

Faulk.  'Twas  but  your  fancy,  Julia.  I  was  rejoiced  to  see  you  — 
to  see  you  in  such  health.  Sure  I  had  no  cause  for  coldness  ? 

Jul.  Nay,  then,  I  see  you  have  taken  something  ill.  You  must 
not  conceal  from  me  what  it  is. 

Faulk.  Well,  then,  shall  I  own  to  you  that  my  joy  at  hearing  of 
your  health  and  arrival  here,  by  your  neighbor  Acres,  was  somewhat 


128  THE  RIVALS. 

damped  by  his  dwelling  much  on  the  high  spirits  you  had  enjoyed  in 
Devonshire  —  on  your  mirth  —  your  singing  —  dancing,  and  I  know 
not  what  ?  For  such  is  my  temper,  Julia,  that  I  should  regard  every 
mirthful  moment  in  your  absence  as  a  treason  to  constancy.  The 
mutual  tear  that  steals  down  the  cheek  of  parting  lovers  is  a  com- 
pact that  no  smile  shall  live  there  till  they  meet  again. 

Jul.  Must  I  never  cease  to  tax  my  Faulkland  with  this  teasing 
minute  caprice  ?  Can  the  idle  reports  of  a  silly  boor  weigh  in  your 
breast  against  my  tried  affection  ? 

Faulk.  They  have  no  weight  with  me,  Julia  :  no,  no  —  I  am  happy 
if  you  have  been  so  —  yet  only  say  that  you  did  not  sing  with  mirth 
—  say  that  you  thought  of  Faulkland  in  the  dance. 

Jul.  I  never  can  be  happy  in  your  absence.  If  I  wear  a  counte- 
nance of  content,  it  is  to  show  that  my  mind  holds  no  doubt  of  my 
Faulkland's  truth.  If  I  seemed  sad,  it  were  to  make  malice  tri- 
umph ;  and  say  that  I  had  fixed  my  heart  on  one  who  left  me  to 
lament  his  roving  and  my  own  credulity.  Believe  me,  Faulkland,  I 
mean  not  to  upbraid  you  when  I  say  that  I  have  often  dressed 
sorrow  in  smiles,  lest  my  friends  should  guess  whose  unkindness  had 
caused  my  tears. 

Faulk.  You  were  ever  all  goodness  to  me.  Oh,  I  am  a  brute, 
when  I  but  admit  a  doubt  of  your  true  constancy ! 

Jnl  If  ever  without  such  cause  from  you,  as  I  will  not  suppose 
possible,  you  find  my  affections  veering  but  a  point,  may  I  become  a 
proverbial  scoff  for  levity  and  base  ingratitude. 

Faulk.  Ah !  Julia,  that  last  word  is  grating  to  me.  I  would  I  had 
no  title  to  your  gratitude  !  Search  your  heart,  Julia  ;  perhaps  what 
you  have  mistaken  for  love  is  but  the  warm  effusion  of  a  too  thank- 
ful heart. 

Jul.    Fcr  what  quality  must  I  love  you  ? 


A    COMEDY.  129 

Faulk.  For  no  quality  !  To  regard  me  for  any  quality  of  mind  or 
understanding  were  only  to  esteem  me.  And  for  person  —  I  have 
often  wished  myself  deformed,  to  be  convinced  that  I  owed  no  obli- 
gation there  for  any  part  of  your  affection. 

Jul.  Where  nature  has  bestowed  a  show  of  nice  attention  in  the 
features  of  a  man,  he  should  laugh  at  it  as  misplaced.  I  have  seen 
men,  who  in  this  vain  article,  perhaps,  might  rank  above  you ;  but 
my  heart  has  never  asked  my  eyes  if  it  were  so  or  not. 

Faulk.  Now  this  is  not  well  from  you,  Julia —  I  despise  person  in 
a  man  —  yet  if  you  loved  me  as  I  wish,  though  I  were  an  yEthiop, 
you  'd  think  none  so  fair. 

////.  I  see  you  are  determined  to  be  unkind  !  The  contract  which 
my  poor  father  bound  us  in  gives  you  more  than  a  lover's  privilege. 

Faulk.  Again,  Julia,  you  raise  ideas  that  feed  and  justify  my 
doubts.  I  would  not  have  been  more  free  —  no  —  I  am  proud  of  my 
restraint.  Yet  —  yet  —  perhaps  your  high  respect  alone  for  this 
solemn  compact  has  fettered  your  inclinations,  which  else  had  made  a 
worthier  choice.  How  shall  I  be  sure,  had  you  remained  unbound  in 
thought  and  promise,  that  I  should  still  have  been  the  object  of  your 
persevering  love  ? 

////.  Then  try  me  now.  Let  us  be  free  as  strangers  as  to  what  is 
past :  my  heart  will  not  feel  more  liberty  ! 

Faulk.  There  now !  so  hasty,  Julia  !  so  anxious  to  be  free !  If 
your  love  for  me  were  fixed  and  ardent,  you  would  not  lose  your  hold 
even  though  I  wished  it ! 

Jul.    Oh  !  you  torture  me  to  the  heart !  I  cannot  bear  it ! 

Faulk.  I  do  not  mean  to  distress  you.  If  I  loved  you  less  I 
should  never  give  you  an  uneasy  moment.  But  hear  me.  All  my 
fretful  doubts  arise  from  this.  Women  are  not  used  to  weigh  and 
separate  the  motives  of  their  affections  :  the  cold  dictates  of  pru- 


130  THE  RIVALS. 

dence,  gratitude,  or  filial  duty,  may  sometimes  be  mistaken  for  the 
pleadings  of  the  heart.  I  would  not  boast  —  yet  let  me  say  that  I 
have  neither  age,  person,  nor  character,  to  found  dislike  on;  my 
fortune  such  as  few  ladies  could  be  charged  with  indiscretion  in  the 
match.  O  Julia !  when  love  receives  such  countenance  from  .pru- 
dence, nice  minds  will  be  suspicious  of  its  birth. 

Jul.  I  know  not  whither  your  insinuations  would  tend  :  —  but  as 
they  seem  pressing  to  insult  me,  I  will  spare  you  the  regret  of  having 
done  so.  I  have  given  you  no  cause  for  this  !  [Exit  in  tears. 

Faulk.  In  tears !  Stay,  Julia :  stay  but  for  a  moment.  —  The 
door  is  fastened  !  —  Julia ! —  !  my  soul  —  but  for  one  moment !  —  I 
hear  her  sobbing  —  'Sdeath  !  — what  a  brute  am  I  to  use  her  thus  ! 
Yet  stay.  —  Ay  —  she  is  coming  now  :  —  how  little  resolution  there 
is  in  woman  !  —  how  a  few  soft  words  can  turn  them  !  —  No,  faith  ! — 
she  is  not  coming  either.  —  Why,  Julia  —  my  love  —  say  .but  that 
you  forgive  me  —  come  but  to  tell  me  that  —  now  this  is  being  too 
resentful.  Stay  !  she  is  coming  too  —  I  thought  she  would  —  no 
steadiness  in  anything :  her  going  away  must  have  been  a  mere 
trick  then  — she  sha'n't  see  that  I  was  hurt  by  it.  — I  '11  affect  indif- 
ference —  \PIums  a  tune :  then  listens^  No  —  zounds  !  she  's  not 
coming  !  —  nor  don't  intend  it,  I  suppose.  —  This  is  not  steadiness, 
but  obstinacy  !  Yet  I  deserve  it.  —  What,  after  so  long  an  absence 
to  quarrel  with  her  tenderness  !  —  't  was  barbarous  and  unmanly ! —  I 
should  be  ashamed  to  see  her  now.  —  I  '11  wait  till  her  just  resent- 
ment is  abated  —  and  when  I  distress  her  so  again,  may  I  lose  her 
forever  !  and  be  linked  instead  to  some  antique  virago,  whose  gnaw- 
ing passions  and  long-hoarded  spleen  shall  make  me  curse  my  folly 
half  the  day  and  all  the  night.  [Exit. 


A    COMEDY.  131 

SCENE   III.  —  MRS.  MALAPROP'S  Lodgings. 
MRS.  MALAPROP,  with  a  letter  in  her  hand,  and  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Your  being  Sir  Anthony's  son,  captain,  would  itself  be 
a  sufficient  accommodation ;  but  from  the  ingenuity  of  your  appear- 
ance, I  am  convinced  you  deserve  the  character  here  given  of  you. 

Abs.  Permit  me  to  say,  madam,  that  as  I  never  yet  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  Miss  Languish,  my  principal  inducement  in  this 
affair  at  present  is  the  honor  of  being  allied  to  Mrs.  Malaprop,  of 
whose  intellectual  accomplishments,  elegant  manners,  and  unaffected 
learning,  no  tongue  is  silent. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Sir,  you  do  me  infinite  honor !  I  beg,  captain,  you  '11  be 
seated.  — \TJicy  sit.']  Ah  !  few  gentlemen,  now-a-days,  know  how  to 
value  the  ineffectual  qualities  in  a  woman  !  few  think  how  a  little 
knowledge  becomes  a  gentlewoman  !  —  Men  have  no  sense  now  but 
for  the  worthless  flower  of  beauty  ! 

Abs.  It  is  but  too  true,  indeed,  ma'am ;  —  yet  I  fear  our  ladies 
should  share  the  blame  —  they  think  our  admiration  of  beauty  so 
great  that  knowledge  in  them  would  be  superfluous.  Thus,  like 
garden-trees,  they  seldom  show  fruit  till  time  has  robbed  them  of 
the  more  specious  blossom.  —  Few,  like  Mrs.  Malaprop  and  the 
orange-tree,  are  rich  in  both  at  once ! 

Mrs.  Mai.  Sir,  you  overpower  me  with  good-breeding.  —  He  is 
the  very  pine-apple  of  politeness! — You  are  not  ignorant,  captain, 
that  this  giddy  girl  has  somehow  contrived  to  fix  her  affections  on  a 
beggarly,  strolling,  eaves-dropping  ensign,  whom  none  of  us  have  seen, 
and  nobody  knows  anything  of. 

Abs.  Oh,  I  have  heard  the  silly  affair  before.  —  I  'm  not  at  all 
prejudiced  against  her  on  that  account. 


132  THE  RIVALS. 

Mrs.  Mai.  You  are  very  good  and  very  considerate,  captain.  I 
am  sure  I  have  done  everything  in  my  power  since  I  exploded  the 
affair  ;  long  ago  I  laid  my  positive  conjunctions  on  her,  never  to  think 
on  the  fellow  again ;  —  I  have  since  laid  Sir  Anthony's  preposition 
before  her  ;  but,  I  am  sorry  to  say  she  seems  resolved  to  decline 
every  particle  that  I  enjoin  her. 

Abs.    It  must  be  very  distressing,  indeed,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Oh,  it  gives  me  the  hydrostatics  to  such  a  degree.  —  I 
thought  she  had  persisted  from  corresponding  with  him ;  but,  behold, 
this  very  day,  I  have  interceded  another  letter  from  the  fellow ;  I 
believe  I  have  it  in  my  pocket. 

Abs.    Oh,  the  devil !  my  last  note.  [Aside. 

Mrs.  Mai.    Ay,  here  it  is. 

Abs.    Ay,  my  note  indeed  !     O  the  little  traitress  Lucy.       [Aside. 

Mrs.  Mai.    There,  perhaps  you  may  know  the  writing. 

[Gives  him  the  letter. 

Abs.  I  think  I  have  seen  the  hand  before  —  yes,  I  certainly  must 
have  seen  this  hand  before  — 

Mrs.  Mai.    Nay,  but  read  it,  captain. 

Abs.  [Reads.]  My  soul's  idol,  my  adored  Lydia  ! — Very  tender 
indeed ! 

Mrs.  Mai.    Tender !  ay,  and  profane  too,  o'  my  conscience. 

Abs.  [Reads.]  /  am  excessively  alarmed  at  the  intelligence  you 
send  me,  the  more  so  as  my  new  rival 

Mrs.  Mai.    That 's  you,  sir. 

Abs.  [Reads.]  Has  universally  the  character  of  being  an  accom- 
plished gentleman  and  a  man  of  honor.  —  Well,  that 's  handsome 
enough. 

Mrs.  Mai.    Oh,  the  fellow  has  some  design  in  writing  so. 

Abs.   That  he  had,  I  '11  answer  for  him,  ma'am. 


A    COMEDY.  133 

Mrs.  Mai.    But  go  on,  sir  —  you  '11  see  presently. 

Abs.  [Reads.]  As  for  the  old  weather-beaten  she-dragon  who 
guards  you  —  Who  can  he  mean  by  that  ? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Me,  sir  —  me  !  —  he  means  me  !  —  There  —  what  do 
you  think  now  ?  —  but  go  on  a  little  further. 

Abs.  Impudent  scoundrel !  — .[Reads.]  it  shall  go  hard  but  I  will 
elude  her  vigilance,  as  I  am  told  that  the  same  ridiculous  vanity  which 
makes  her  dress  up  her  coarse  features  and  deck  her  dull  chat  with  hard 
words  which  she  dont  understand 

Mrs.  Mai.  There,  sir,  an  attack  upon  my  language  !  What  do 
you  think  of  that  ?  —  an  aspersion  upon  my  parts  of  speech !  was 
ever  such  a  brute  !  Sure,  if  I  reprehend  anything  in  this  world,  it 
is  the  use  of  my  oracular  tongue,  and  a  nice  derangement  of 
epitaphs ! 

Abs.  He  deserves  to  be  hanged  and  quartered  !  let  me  see  — 
[Reads.]  same  ridiculous  vanity 

Mrs.  Mai.    You  need  not  read  it  again,  sir. 

Abs.  I  beg  pardon,  ma'am.  —  [Reads.]  does  also  lay  her  open  to 
the  grossest  deceptions  from  flattery  and  pretended  admiration  —  an 
impudent  coxcomb  —  so  that  I  have  a  scheme  to  see  yon  shortly  with 
the  old  harridan's  consent,  and  even  to  make  her  a  go-betiveen  in  our 
interview.  —  Was  ever  such  assurance  ! 

Mrs.  Mai.  Did  you  ever  hear  anything  like  it  ?  —  he  '11  elude  my 
vigilance,  will  he  —  yes,  yes  !  ha  !  ha  !  he  's  very  likely  to  enter  these 
doors  ;  —  we  '11  try  who  can  plot  best ! 

Abs.  So  we  will,  ma'am  —  so  we  will !  Ha !  ha  !  ha !  a  conceited 
puppy,  ha!  ha!  ha!  —  Well,  but  Mrs.  Malaprop,  as  the  girl  seems  so 
infatuated  by  this  fellow,  suppose  you  were  to  wink  at  her  corre- 
sponding with  him  for  a  little  time  —  let  her  even  plot  an  elopement 
with  him  —  then  do  you  connive  at  her  escape  —  while  I,  just  in  the 


134  THE  RIVALS. 

nick,  will  have  the  fellow  laid  by  the  heels,  and  fairly  contrive  to 
carry  her  off  in  his  stead. 

Mrs.  Mai.  I  am  delighted  with  the  scheme ;  never  was  anything 
better  perpetrated ! 

Abs.  But,  pray,  could  not  I  see  the  lady  for  a  few  minutes  now  ? 
—  I  should  like  to  try  her  temper  a  little. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Why,  I  don't  know  —  I  doubt  she  is  not  prepared  for 
a  visit  of  this  kind.  There  is  a  decorum  in  these  matters. 

Abs.   O  Lord  !  she  won't  mind  me  —  only  tell  her  Beverley 

Mrs.  Mai.    Sir ! 

Abs.    Gently,  good  tongue.  [Aside. 

Mrs.  Mai.   What  did  you  say  of  Beverley  ? 

Abs.  Oh,  I  was  going  to  propose  that  you  should  tell  her,  by  way 
of  jest,  that  it  was  Beverley  who  was  below ;  she  'd  come  down  fast 
enough  then  —  ha !  ha !  ha ! 

Mrs.  Mai.  'T  would  be  a  trick  she  well  deserves ;  besides,  you 
know  the  fellow  tells  her  he  '11  get  my  consent  to  see  her —  ha !  ha  ! 
Let  him  if  he  can,  I  say  again.  Lydia,  come  down  here!  —  [Calling.] 
He  '11  make  me  a  go-between  in  their  interviews  !  —  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 
Come  down,  I  say,  Lydia !  I  don't  wonder  at  your  laughing,  ha ! 
ha  !  ha  !  his  impudence  is  truly  ridiculous. 

Abs.   'T  is  very  ridiculous,  upon  my  soul,  ma'am,  ha !  ha !  ha ! 

Mrs.  Mai.  The  little  hussy  won't  hear.  Well,  I  '11  go  and  tell  her 
at  once  who  it  is  —  she  shall  know  that  Captain  Absolute  is  come 
to  wait  on  her.  And  I  '11  make  her  behave  as  becomes  a  young 
woman. 

Abs.   As  you  please,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Mai.  For  the  present,  captain,  your  servant.  Ah !  you  've 
not  done  laughing  yet,  I  see  —  elude  my  vigilance;  yes,  yes;  ha! 
ha!  ha!  [Exit. 


A    COMEDY.  135 

Abs.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  one  would  think  now  that  I  might  throw  off 
all  disguise  at  once,  and  seize  my  prize  with  security  ;  but  such  is 
Lydia's  caprice,  that  to  undeceive  were  probably  to  lose  her.  I  '11 
see  whether  she  knows  me. 

[  Walks  aside,  and  seems  engaged  in  looking  at  the  pictures] 
Enter  LYDIA. 

Lyd.  What  a  scene  am  I  now  to  go  through !  surely  nothing 
can  be  more  dreadful  than  to  be  obliged  to  listen  to  the  loathsome 
addresses  of  a  stranger  to  one's  heart.  I  have  heard  of  girls  perse- 
cuted as  I  am  who  have  appealed  in  behalf  of  their  favored  lover  to 
the  generosity  of  his  rival ;  suppose  I  were  to  try  it  —  there  stands 
the  hated  rival  —  an  officer  too !  —  but  oh,  how  unlike  my  Bever- 
ley!  I  wonder  he  don't  begin  —  truly  he  seems  a  very  negligent 
wooer !  —  quite  at  his  ease,  upon  my  word  !  —  I  '11  speak  first  — 
Mr.  Absolute. 

Abs.    Ma'am.  [Tunis  round. 

Lyd.   O  heavens  !  Beverley ! 

Abs.    Hush  !  —  hush,  my  life  !  softly  !  be  not  surprised ! 

Lyd.  I  am  so  astonished  !  and  so  terrified  !  and  so  overjoyed !  for 
Heaven's  sake  !  how  came  you  here  ? 

Abs.  Briefly,  I  have  deceived  your  aunt  —  I  was  informed  that  my 
new  rival  was  to  visit  here  this  evening,  and,  contriving  to  have  him 
kept  away,  have  passed  myself  on  her  for  Captain  Absolute. 

Lyd.  O  charming !  And  she  really  takes  you  for  young  Abso- 
lute ? 

Abs.   Oh,  she  's  convinced  of  it. 

Lyd.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  I  can't  forbear  laughing  to  think  how  her 
sagacity  is  overreached  ! 

Abs.  But  we  trifle  with  our  precious  moments  —  such  another 
opportunity  may  not  occur ;  then  let  me  now  conjure  my  kind,  my 


136  THE  RIVALS. 

condescending  angel,  to  fix  the  time  when  I  may  rescue  her  from 
undeserving  persecution,  and  with  a  licensed  warmth  plead  for  my 
reward. 

Lyd.  Will  you,  then,  Beverley,  consent  to  forfeit  that  portion  of 
my  paltry  wealth  ?  that  burden  on  the  wings  of  love  ? 

Abs.  Oh,  come  to  me  —  rich  only  thus  —  in  loveliness  !  Bring 
no  portion  to  me  but  thy  love  —  't  will  be  generous  in  you,  Lydia 
—  for  well  you  know,  it  is  the  only  dower  your  poor  Beverley  can 
repay. 

Lyd.  How  persuasive  are  his  words !  —  how  charming  will  poverty 
be  with  him  !  [Aside. 

Abs.  Ah !  my  soul,  what  a  life  will  we  then  live !  love  shall  be 
our  idol  and  support !  we  will  worship  him  with  a  monastic  strict- 
ness;  abjuring  all  worldly  toys,  to  centre  every  thought  and  action 
there.  Proud  of  calamity,  we  will  enjoy  the  wreck  of  wealth  ;  while 
the  surrounding  gloom  of  adversity  shall  make  the  flame  of  our  pure 
love  show  doubly  bright.  By  Heavens  !  I  would  fling  all  goods  of 
fortune  from  me  with  a  prodigal  hand,  to  enjoy  the  scene  where 
I  might  clasp  my  Lydia  to  my  bosom,  and  say,  the  world  affords  no 
smile  to  me  but  here  —  [Embracing  her.}  If  she  holds  out  no\v,  the 
devil  is  in  it !  [Aside. 

Lyd.  Now  could  I  fly  with  him  to  the  antipodes !  but  my  perse- 
cution is  not  yet  come  to  a  crisis.  [Aside. 
Re-Enter  MRS.  MALAPROP,  listening. 

Mrs.  Mai.  I  am  impatient  to  know  how  the  little  hussy  deports 
herself.  [Aside. 

Abs.    So  pensive,  Lydia  !  —  is  then  your  warmth  abated  ? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Warmth  abated  !  —  so  !  —  she  has  been  in  a  passion,  I 
suppose.  [Aside. 

Lyd.   No  —  nor  ever  can  while  I  have  life, 


A    COMEDY.  137 

Mrs.  Mai.  An  ill-tempered  little  devil !  she  '11  be  in  a  passion  all 
her  life  —  will  she  ?  [Aside. 

Lyd.  Think  not  the  idle  threats  of  my  ridiculous  aunt  can  ever 
have  any  weight  with  me. 

Mrs,  Mai.    Very  dutiful,  upon  my  word  !  [Aside. 

Lyd.    Let  her  choice  be  Captain  Absolute,  but  Beverley  is  mine. 

Mrs.  Mai.  I  am  astonished  at  her  assurance  !  —  to  his  face  —  this 
is  to  his  face  !  {Aside. 

Ab*.    Thus  then  let  me  enforce  my  suit.  [Kneeling. 

Mrs.  Mai.  [Aside.~\  Ay,  poor  young  man!  —  down  on  his  knees 
entreating  for  pity  !  —  I  can  contain  no  longer.  —  [Coming  forward.] 
Why,  thou  vixen  !  I  have  overheard  you. 

Ads.    Oh,  confound  her  vigilance !  [Aside. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Captain  Absolute,  I  know  not  how  to  apologize  for  her 
shocking  rudeness. 

Abs.  [Aside.]  So — all's  safe,  I  find.  —  [Aloud.]  I  have  hopes, 
madam,  that  time  will  bring  the  young  lady 

Mrs.  Mai.  Oh,  there  's  nothing  to  be  hoped  for  from  her  !  she  's 
as  headstrong  as  an  allegory  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile. 

Lyd.    Nay,  madam,  what  do  you  charge  me  with  now  ? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Why,  thou  unblushing  rebel  —  did  n't  you  tell  this 
gentleman  to  his  face  that  you  loved  another  better? — didn't  you 
say  you  never  would  be  his  ? 

Lyd.    No,  madam  —  I  did  not. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Good  Heavens  !  what  assurance !  —  Lydia,  Lydia,  you 
ought  to  know  that  lying  don't  become  a  young  woman !  —  Did  n't 
you  boast  that  Beverley,  that  stroller  Beverley,  possessed  your  heart? 
— Tell  me  that,  I  say. 

Lyd.    'T  is  true,  ma'am,  and  none  but  Beverley 

Mrs.  Mai.    Hold!  hold,  Assurance  !  — you  shall  not  be  so  rude. 


138  THE  RIVALS. 

Abs.  Nay,  pray,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  don't  stop  the  young  lady's 
speech  :  —  she 's  very  welcome  to  talk  thus  —  it  does  not  hurt  me  in 
the  least,  I  assure  you. 

Mrs.  Mai.  You  are  too  good,  captain  —  too  amiably  patient  — 
but  come  with  me,  miss.  —  Let  us  see  you  again  soon,  captain  — 
remember  what  we  have  fixed. 

Abs.    I  shall  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Mai.    Come,  take  a  graceful  leave  of  the  gentleman. 

Lyd.    May  every  blessing  wait  on  my  Beverley,  my  loved  Bev 

Mrs.  Mai.  Hussy!  I'll  choke  the  word  in  your  throat!  —  come 
along  —  come  along. 

\Exeunt    severally,    CAPTAIN   ABSOLUTE    kissing  his  hand  to 
LYDIA  —  MRS.  MALAPROP  stopping  Jicr from  speaking. 


SCENE  IV. — ACRES'S  Lodgings. 

ACRES,  as  just  dressed,  and  DAVID. 

Acres.    Indeed,  David  —  do  you  think  I  become  it  so  ? 

Dav.  You  are  quite  another  creature,  believe  me,  master,  by  the 
mass !  an'  we  've  any  luck  we  shall  see  the  Devon  monkerony  in  all 
the  print-shops  in  Bath  ! 

Acres.    Dress  docs  make  a  difference,  David. 

Dav.  'T  is  all  in  all,  I  think. —  Difference  !  why,  an'  you  were  to 
go  now  to  Clod-Hall,  I  am  certain  the  old  lady  would  n't  know  you : 
Master  Butler  would  n't  believe  his  own  eyes,  and  Mrs.  Pickle  would 
cry,  '  Lard  presarve  me  ! '  our  dairy-maid  would  come  giggling  to  the 
door,  and  I  warrant  Dolly  Tester,  your  honor's  favorite,  would  blush 
like  my  waistcoat. —  Oons !  I  'II  hold  a  gallon,  there  a'nt  a  dog  in  the 


A    COMEDY.  139 

house  but  would  bark,  and  I  question  whether  Phillis  would  wag  a 
hair  of  her  tail ! 

Acres.    Ay,  David,  there  's  nothing  like  polishing. 

Dav.    So  I  says  of  your  honor's  boots  ;  but  the  boy  never  heeds  me ! 

Acres.  But,  David,  has  Mr.  De- la-grace  been  here  ?  I  must  rub 
up  my  balancing,  and  chasing,  and  boring. 

Dav.    I  '11  call  again,  sir. 

Acres.  Do  —  and  see  if  there  are  any  letters  for  me  at  the  post- 
office. 

Dav.  I  will.  —  By  the  mass,  I  can't  help  looking  at  your  head  !  — 
if  I  had  n't  been  by  at  the  cooking,  I  wish  I  may  die  if  I  should  have 
known  the  dish  again  myself  !  [Exit. 

Acres.  [Comes  forward,  practising  a  dancing  step.}  Sink,  slide  — 
coupee.  —  Confound  the  first  inventors  of  cotillons  !  say  I  —  they 
are  as  bad  as  algebra  to  us  country  gentlemen —  I  can  walk  a  minuet 
easy  enough  when  I  am  forced !  —  and  I  have  been  accounted  a  good 
stick  in  a  country  dance.  —  Odds  jigs  and  tabors  !  I  never  valued  your 
cross-over  to  couple  —  figure  in  —  right  and  left  —  and  I'd  foot  it 
with  e'er  a  captain  in  the  county!  —  but  these  outlandish  heathen 
allemandes  and  cotillons  are  quite  beyond  me !  —  I  shall  never 
prosper  at  'em,  that 's  sure  —  mine  are  true-born  English  legs  — 
they  don't  understand  their  curst  French  lingo!  —  their  pas  this, 
and  pas  that,  and  pas  t'other! — damn  me!  my  feet  don't  like  to 
be  called  paws !  no  't  is  certain  I  have  most  Antigallican  toes  ! 
Enter  SERVANT. 

Serv.    Here  is  Sir  Lucius  OTrigger  to  wait  on  you,  sir. 

Acres.    Show  him  in !  .         [Exit  SERVANT. 

Enter  SIR  Lucius  O'TRIGPER. 

Sir  Luc.    Mr.  Acres,  I  am  delighted  to  embrace  you. 

Acres.    My  dear  Sir  Lucius,  I  kiss  your  hands. 


140  THE  RIVALS. 

Sir  Luc.  Pray,  my  friend,  what  has  brought  you  so  suddenly  to 
Bath? 

Acres.  Faith  !  I  have  followed  Cupid's  Jack-a-lantern,  and  find 
myself  in  a  quagmire  at  last. —  In  short,  I  have  been  very  ill  used 
Sir  Lucius.  —  I  don't  choose  to  mention  names,  but  look  on  me  as 
on  a  very  ill  used  gentleman. 

Sir  Luc.    Pray  what  is  the  case  ?  —  I  ask  no  names. 

Acres.  Mark  me,  Sir  Lucius,  I  fall  as  deep  as  need  be  in  love 
with  a  young  lady  —  her  friends  take  my  part  —  I  follow  her  to  Bath 
—  send  word  of  my  arrival ;  and  receive  answer,  that  the  lady  is  to 
be  otherwise  disposed  of. —  This,  Sir  Lucius,  I  call  being  ill  used. 

Sir  Luc.  Very  ill,  upon  my  conscience. —  Pray,  can  you  divine 
the  cause  of  it  ?  • 

Acres.  Why,  there 's  the  matter ;  she  has  another  lover,  one  Bev- 
erley,  who,  I  am  told,  is  now  in  Bath. —  Odds  slanders  and  lies!  he 
must  be  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

Sir  Luc.  A  rival  in  the  case,  is  there  ?  —  and  you  think  he  has 
supplanted  you  unfairly  ? 

Acres.  Unfairly !  to  be  sure  he  has.  He  never  could  have  done 
it  fairly. 

Sir  Luc.    Then  sure  you. know  what  is  to  be  done  ! 

Acres.    Not  I,  upon  my  soul ! 

Sir  Luc.    We  wear  no  swords  here,  but  you  understand  me. 

Acres.    What  !  fight  him  ! 

Sir  Luc.   Ay,  to  be  sure  :  what  can  I  mean  else  ? 

Acres.    But  he  has  given  me  no  provocation. 

Sir  Luc.  Now,  I  think  he  has  given  you  the  greatest  provocation 
in  the  world.  Can  a  man  commit  a  more  heinous  offence  against 
another  than  to  fall  in  love  with  the  same  woman  ?  Oh,  by  my  soul ! 
it  is  the  most  unpardonable  breach  of  friendship. 


A    COMEDY.  141 

Acres.  Breach  of  friendship  !  Ay,  ay  ;  but  I  have  no  acquaintance 
with  this  man.  I  never  saw  him  in  my  life. 

Sir  Luc.  That's  no  argument  at  all  —  he  has  the  less  right  then 
to  take  such  a  liberty. 

Acres.  Gad,  that's  true  —  I  grow  full  of  anger,  Sir  Lucius!  I 
fire  apace !  Odds  hilts  and  blades  !  I  find  a  man  may  have  a  deal  of 
valor  in  him,  and  not  know  it !  But  could  n't  I  contrive  to  have  a 
little  right  of  my  side  ? 

Sir  Lt:c.  What  the  devil  signifies  right,  when  your  honor  is  con- 
cerned ?  Do  you  think  Achilles  or  my  little  Alexander  the  Great 
ever  inquired  where  the  right  lay?  No,  by  my  soul,  they  drew  their 
broadswords,  and  left  the  lazy  sons  of  peace  to  settle  the  justice 
of  it. 

Acres.  Your  words  are  a  grenadier's  march  to  my  heart ;  I  be- 
lieve courage  must  be  catching !  I  certainly  do  feel  a  kind  of  valor 
rising  as  it  were  —  a  kind  of  courage,  as  I  may  say.  —  Odds  flints, 
pans,  and  triggers  !  I  '11  challenge  him  directly. 

Sir  Luc.  Ah,  my  little  friend  !  if  I  had  Blunderbuss- Hall  here,  I 
could  show  you  a  range  of  ancestry,  in  the  O'Triggcr  line,  that 
would  furnish  the  new  room  ;  every  one  of  whom  had  killed  his 
man  !  —  For  though  the  mansion-house  and  dirty  acres  have  slipped 
through  my  fingers,  I  thank  heaven  our  honor  and  the  family  pictures 
are  as  fresh  as  ever. 

Acres.  O,  Sir  Lucius !  I  have  had  ancestors  too  !  —  every  man  of 
'em  colonel  or  captain  in  the  militia !  —  Odds  balls  and  barrels !  — 
say  no  more  —  I'm  braced  for  it.  The  thunder  of  your  words  has 
soured  the  milk  of  human  kindness  in  my  breast;  —  Zounds!  as  the 
man  in  the  play  says,  '  /  could  do  such  deeds  !  ' 

Sir  Lite,  Come,  come,  there  must  be  no  passion  at  all  in  the  case 
—  these  things  should  always  be  done  civilly. 


142  THE  RIVALS. 

Acres.  I  must  be  in  a  passion,  Sir  Lucius  —  I  must  be  in  a  rage. 
—  Dear  Sir  Lucius,  let  me  be  in  a  rage,  if  you  love  me.  Come, 
here's  pen  and  paper.- — [Sits  down  to  write, .]  I  would  the  ink  were 
red  !  —  Indite,  I  say  indite  !  —  How  shall  I  begin  ?  Odds  bullets  and 
blades !  I  '11  write  a  good  bold  hand,  however. 

Sir  Luc.    Pray  compose  yourself. 

Acres.  Come — now,  shall  I  begin  with  an  oath?  Do,  Sir  Lucius, 
let  me  begin  with  a  damme. 

Sir  Luc.  Pho  !  pho  !  do  the  thing  decently,  and  like  a  Christian. 
Begin  now  —  Sir 

Acres.   That 's  too  civil  by  half. 

Sir  Luc.     To  prevent  the  confusion  that  might  arise 

Acres.    Well 

Sir  Luc.    From  our  both  addressing  the  same  lady 

Acres.    Ay,  there 's  the  reason  —  same  lady  — well 

Sir  Luc.    I  shall  expect  the  Jionor  of  your  compan) 

Acres.    Zounds  !  I  'm  not  asking  him  to  dinner. 

Sir  Luc.    Pray  be  easy. 

Acres.    Well  then,  honor  of  your  company 

Sir  Luc.    To  settle  our  pretensions 

Acres.    Well. 

Sir  Luc.  Let  me  see,  ay,  ,King's-Mead-Field  will  do  —  in  Kings- 
Mead-Fields. 

Acres.  So,  that 's  done  — .Well,  I  '11  fold  it  up  presently  ;  my  own 
crest  —  a  hand  and  dagger  shall  be  the  seal. 

Sir  Lite.  You  see  now  this  little  explanation  will  put  a  stop  at 
once  to  all  confusion  or  misunderstanding  that  might  arise  between 
you. 

Acres.    Ay,  \ve  fight  to  prevent  any  misunderstanding. 

Sir  Lite.    Now,  I'll  leave  you  to  fix  your  o\vn  time. — Take  my 


A    COMEDY.  143 

advice,  and  you  '11  decide  it  this  evening  if  you  can  ;  then  let  the  worst 
come  of  it,  't  will  be  off  your  mind  to-morrow. 

Acres.    Very  true. 

Sir  Luc.  So  I  shall  see  nothing  more  of  you,  unless  it  be  by 
letter,  till  the  evening.  —  I  would  do  myself  the  honor  to  carry  your 
message;  but,  to  tell  you  a  secret,  I  believe  I  shall  have  just  such 
another  affair  on  my  own  hands.  There  is  'a  gay  captain  here,  who 
put  a  jest  on  me  lately  at  the  expense  of  my  country,  and  I  only 
want  to  fall  in  with  the  gentleman  to  call  him  out. 

Acres.  By  my  valor,  I  should  like  to  see  you  fight  first !  Odds 
life !  I  should  like  to  see  you  kill  him  if  it  was  only  to  get  a  little 
lesson. 

Sir  Luc.  I  shall  be  very  proud  of  instructingyou.  —  Well  for  the 
present  —  but  remember  now,  when  you  meet  your  antagonist,  do 
everything  in  a  mild  and  agreeable  manner.  —  Let  your  courage  be 
as  keen,  but  at  the  same  time  as  polished,  as  your  sword. 

\Exeunt  severally. 


1 44  THE  RIVALS. 


ACT   IV. 

SCENE  I.  —  ACRES'S  Lodgings. 
ACRES  and  DAVID. 

Dav.  Then,  by  the  mass,  sir  !  I  would  do  no  such  thing — ne'er 
a  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger  in  the  kingdom  should  make  me  fight, 
when  I  wa'n't  so  minded.  Oons  !  what  will  the  old  lady  say,  when 
she  hears  o't? 

Acres.  Ah  !  David,  if  you  had  heard  Sir  Lucius  !  —  Odds  sparks 
and  flames  !  he  would  have  roused  your  valor. 

Dav.  Not  he,  indeed.  I  hates  such  bloodthirsty  cormorants. 
Look'ee,  master,  if  you  'd  wanted  a  bout  at  boxing,  quarter-staff,  or 
short-staff,  I  should  never  be  the  man  to  bid  you  cry  off :  but  for 
your  curst  sharps  and  snaps,  I  never  knew  any  good  come  of  'em. 

Acres.  But  my  honor,  David,  my  honor !  I  must  be  very  careful 
of  my  honor. 

Dav.  Ay,  by  the  mass  !  and  I  would  be  very  careful  of  it ;  and  I 
think  in  return  my  honor  could  n't  do  less  than  to  be  very  careful 
of  me. 

Acres.  Odds  blades  !  David,  no  gentleman  will  ever  risk  the  loss 
of  his  honor ! 

Dav.  I  say  then,  it  would  be  but  civil  in  honor  never  to  risk  the 
loss  of  a  gentleman.  —  Look'ee,  master,  this  honor  seems  to  me  to 
be  a  marvellous  false  friend  :  ay,  truly,  a  very  courtier-like  servant.  — 
Put  the  case,  I  was  a  gentleman  (which,  thank  God,  no  one  can  say 
of  me) ;  well  —  my  honor  makes  me  quarrel  with  another  gentleman 


A    COMEDY.  145 

of  my  acquaintance.  —  So  —  we  fight.  (Pleasant  enough  that !)  Boh  ! 
—  I  kill  him  —  (the  more  's  my  luck.)  Now,  pray  who  gets  the  profit 
of  it  ?  —  Why,  my  honor.  But  put  the  case  that  he  kills  me  !  —  by 
the  mass  !  I  go  to  the  worms,  and  my  honor  whips  over  to  my 
enemy. 

Acres.  No,  David  —  in  that  case!  —  Odds  crowns  and  laurels! 
your  honor  follows  you  to  the  grave. 

Dav.  Now  that 's  just  the  place  where  I  could  make  a  shift  to 
do  without  it. 

Acres.  Zounds  !  David,  you  are  a  coward  !  —  It  does  n't  become 
my  valor  to  listen  to  you.  —  What,  shall  I  disgrace  my  ancestors  ?  — 
Think  of  that,  David  —  think  what  it  would  be  to  disgrace  my 
ancestors ! 

Dav.  Under  favor,  the  surest  way  of  not  disgracing  them  is  to 
keep  as  long  as  you  can  out  of  their  company.  Look'ee  now, 
master,  to  go  to  them  in  such  haste  —  with  an  ounce  of  lead  in  your 
brains  —  I  should  think  might  as  well  be  let  alone.  Our  ancestors 
are  very  good  kind  of  folks  ;  but  they  are  the  last  people  I  should 
choose  to  have  a  visiting  acquaintance  with. 

Acres.  But,  David,  now,  you  don't  think  there  is  such  very,  very, 
very  great  danger,  hey  ?  —  Odds  life  !  people  often  fight  without  any 
mischief  done ! 

Dav.  By  the  mass,  I  think  't  is  ten  to  one  against  you  !  —  Oons  ! 
here  to  meet  some  lion-headed  fellow,  I  warrant,  with  his  damned 
double-barrelled  swords,  and  ctit-and-thrust  pistols  !  —  Lord  bless 
us !  it  makes  me  tremble  to  think  o't !  —  Those  be  such  desperate 
bloody-minded  weapons  !  Well,  I  never  could  abide  'em  —  from  -a 
child  I  never  could  fancy  'em !  —  I  suppose  there  a'n't  been  so  mer- 
ciless a  beast  in  the  world  as  your  loaded  pistol  1 

Acres.    Zounds  !    I  won't  be  afraid  !  —  Odds  fire  and  fury  I  you 


146  THE  RIVALS. 

shan't  make  me  afraid.  —  Here  is  the  challenge,  and  I  have  sent  for 
my  dear  friend  Jack  Absolute  to  carry  it  for  me. 

Dav.  Ay,  i'  the  name  of  mischief,  let  him  be  the  messenger.  — 
For  my  part,  I  would  n't  lend  a  hand  to  it  for  the  best  horse  in  your 
stable.  By  the  mass  !  it  don't  look  like  Another  letter !  It  is,  as  I 
may  say,  a  designing  and  malicious-looking  letter;  —  and  I  warrant 
smells  of  gunpowder  like  a  soldier's  pouch  !  —  Oons  !  I  would  n't 
swear  it  may  n't  go  off  ! 

Acres.    Out,  you  poltroon  !  you  ha'n't  the  valor  of  a  grasshopper. 

Dav.  Well,  I  say  no  more  —  't  will  be  sad  news,  to  be  sure,  at 
Clod-Hall !  but  I  ha'  done.  —  How  Phillis  will  howl  when  she  hears  of 
it!  —  Ay,  poor  bitch,  she  little  thinks  what  shooting  her  master's 
going  after  !  —  And  I  warrant  old  Crop,  who  has  carried  your  honor, 
field  and  road,  these  ten  years,  will  curse  the  hour  he  was  born. 

[  Whimpering. 

Acres.  It  won't  do,  David  —  I  am  determined  to  fight  —  so  get 
along,  you  coward,  while  I  'm  in  the  mind. 

Enter  SERVANT. 
Ser.    Captain  Absolute,  sir. 

Acres.    Oh  !  show  him  up.  [Exit  SERVANT. 

Dav.    Well,  Heaven  send  we  be  all  alive  this  time  to-morrow. 
Acres.    What 's  that  ?  —  Don't  provoke  me,  David  ! 
Dav.    Good-by,  master.  [  Whimpering. 

Acres.    Get  along,  you  cowardly,  dastardly,  croaking  raven ! 

[Exit  DAVID. 
Enter  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE. 

Abs.   What 's  the  matter,  Bob  ? 

Acres.   A  vile,  sheep-hearted  blockhead  !  —  If  I  had  n't  the  valor  of 

St.  George  and  the  dragon  to  boot 

Abs.    But  what  did  you  want  with  me,  Bob  ? 


A    COMEDY.  147 

Acres.    Oh  !  —  there [Gives  him  the  challenge. 

Abs.    [Aside.']      To  Ensign  Beverley.  —  So,  what 's  going  on  now  ? 
—  [Aloud.]     Well,  what 's  this  ? 
Acres.    A  challenge  ! 

Abs.    Indeed  !     Why,  you  won't  fight  him  ;  will  you,  Bob  ? 
Acres.    Egad,  but  I  will,  Jack.     Sir  Lucius  has  wrought  me  to  it. 

He  has  left  me  full  of  rage  —  and  I'll  fight  this  evening,  that  so 

«. 
much  good  passion  may  n't  be  wasted. 

Abs.    But  what  have  I  to  do  with  this  ? 

Acres.  Why,  as  I  think  you  know  something  of  this  fellow,  I 
want  you  to  find  him  out  for  me,  and  give  him  this  mortal  defiance. 

Abs.    Well,  give  it  to  me,  and  trust  me  he  gets  it. 

Acres.  Thank  you,  my  dear  friend,  my  dear  Jack ;  but  it  is  giving 
you  a  great  deal  of  trouble. 

Abs.  Not  in  the  least  —  I  beg  you  won't  mention  it.  —  No 
trouble  in  the  world,  I  assure  you. 

Acres.  You  are  very  kind.  —  What  it  is  to  have  a  friend  !  —  You 
could  n't  be  my  second,  could  you,  Jack  ? 

Abs.  Why  no,  Bob  —  not  in  this  affair  —  it  would  not  be  quite  so 
proper. 

Acres.  Well,  then,  I  must  get  my  friend  Sir  Lucius.  I  shall 
have  your  good  wishes,  however,  Jack  ? 

Abs.    Whenever  he  meets  you,  believe  me. 

Re-Enter  SERVANT. 

Ser.    Sir  Anthony  Absolute  is  below,  inquiring  for  the  captain. 

Abs.  I  '11  come  instantly.  —  [Exit  SERVANT.]  Well,  my  little 
hero,  success  attend  you.  [Going. 

Acres.  Stay  —  stay,  Jack.  —  If  Beverley  should  ask  you  what 
kind  of  a  man  your  friend  Acres  is,  do  tell  him  I  am  a  devil  of  a 
fellow  —  will  you,  Jack  ? 


148  THE  RIVALS. 

Abs.  To  be  sure  I  shall.  I'll  say  you  are  a  determined  dog  — 
hey,  Bob  ! 

Acres.  Ay,  do,  do  —  and  if  that  frightens  him,  egad,  perhaps  he 
may  n't  come.  So  tell  him  I  generally  kill  a  man  a  week  ;  will  you, 
Jack? 

Abs.  I  will,  I  will  ;  I  '11  say  you  are  called  in  the  country  Fighting 
Bob.  9 

Acres.  Right  —  right  —  't  is  all  to  prevent  mischief  ;  for  I  don't 
want  to  take  his  life  if  I  clear  my  honor. 

Abs.    No  !  —  that  's  very  kind  of  you. 

Acres.    Why,  you  don't  wish  me  to  kill  him  —  do  you,  Jack  ? 

Abs.    No,  upon  my  soul,  I  do  not.  —  But  a  devil  of  a  fellow,  hey? 


Acres.    True,  true  —  but  stay  —  stay,  Jack  —  you  may  add   that 
you  never  saw  me  in  such  a  rage  before  —  a  most  devouring  rage  ! 
Abs.    I  will,  I  will. 

Acres.    Remember,  Jack  —  a  determined  dog  ! 
Abs.    Ay,  ay,  Fighting  Bob  !  [Exeunt  severally. 


SCENE  II.  —  MRS.  MALAPROP'S  Lodgings. 

MRS.  MALAPROP  and  LYDIA. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Why,  thou  perverse  one !  —  tell  me  what  you  can 
object  to  him?  Isn't  he  a  handsome  man?  —  tell  me  that.  A 
genteel  man  ?  a  pretty  figure  of  a  man  ? 

Lyd.  [Aside.}  She  little  thinks  whom  she  is  praising  !  —  [Aloud.] 
So  is  Beverley,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Mai.    No  caparisons,  miss,  if  you  please.     Caparisons  don't 


MRS.  JOHN  DREW  AS  MRS    MALAPROP. 


A    COMEDY.  149 

become  a  young  woman.  No !  Captain  Absolute  is  indeed  a  fine 
gentleman ! 

Lyd.  Ay,  the  Captain  Absolute  you  have  seen.  [Aside. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Then  he's  so  well  bred;  —  so  full  of  alacrity,  and 
adulation  !  —  and  has  so  muck  to  say  for  himself  :  —  in  such  good 
language  too  !  —  His  physiognomy  so  grammatical !  —  Then  his  pres- 
ence is  so  noble !  —  I  protest,  when  I  saw  him,  I  thought  of  what 
Hamlet  says  in  the  play  :  —  "  Hesperian  curls  —  the  front  of  Job 
himself  !  —  An  eye,  like  March,  to  threaten  at  command  !  —  A  sta- 
tion, like  Harry  Mercury,  new  — "  Something  about  kissing  — 
on  a  hill  —  however,  the  similitude  struck  me  directly. 

Lyd.    How  enraged  she  '11  be  presently,  when  she  discovers  her 

mistake!  [Aside. 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Ser.    Sir  Anthony  and  Captain  Absolute  are  below,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Show  them  up  here.  —  [Exit  SERVANT.]  Now,  Lydia, 
I  insist  on  your  behaving  as  becomes  a  young  woman.  Show  your 
good  breeding,  at  least,  though  you  have  forgot  your  duty. 

Lyd.  Madam,  I  have  told  you  my  resolution  !  —  I  shall  not  only 
give  him  no  encouragement,  but  I  won't  even  speak  to  or  look  at 
him.  [Flings  herself  into  a  cJiair,  with  her  face  from  the  door. 

Enter  SIR  ANTHONY  ABSOLUTE  and  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE. 

Sir  Anth.  Here  we  are,  Mrs.  Malaprop ;  come  to  mitigate  the 
frowns  of  unrelenting  beauty,  —  and  difficulty  enough  I  had  to  bring 
this  fellow.  —  I  don't  know  what 's  the  matter ;  but  if  I  had  not  held 
him  by  force,  he  'd  have  given  me  the  slip. 

Mrs.  Mai.  You  have  infinite  trouble,  Sir  Anthony,  in  the  affair. 
I  am  ashamed  for  the  cause !  —  [Aside  to  LYDIA.]  Lydia,  Lydia, 
rise,  I  beseech  you  !  —  pay  your  respects  ! 


ISO  THE  RIVALS. 

Sir  Anth.  I  hope,  madam,  that  Miss  Languish  has  reflected  on 
the  worth  of  this  gentleman,  and  the  regard  due  to  her  aunt's 
choice  and  my  alliance.  —  [Aside  to  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE.]  Now, 
Jack,  speak  to  her. 

Abs.  [Aside.]  What  the  devil  shall  I  do!—  [Aside  to  SIR 
ANTHONY.]  You  see,  sir,  she  won't  even  look  at  me  whilst  you  are 
here.  —  I  knew  she  wouldn't!  —  I  told  you  so.  —  Let  me  entreat  you, 
sir,  to  leave  us  together  !  [Seems  to  exposttilate  with  his  father. 

Lyd.  [Aside.]  I  wonder  I  h' an't  heard  my  aunt  exclaim  yet! 
sure  she  can't  have  looked  at  him  !  —  perhaps  their  regimentals  are 
alike,  and  she  is  something  blind. 

Sir  Anth.    I  say,  sir,  I  won't  stir  a  foot  yet ! 

Mrs.  Mai.  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Sir  Anthony,  that  my  affluence  over 
my  niece  is  very  small.  —  [Aside  to  LYDIA.]  Turn  round,  Lydia : 
I  blush  for  you  ! 

Sir  Anth.  May  I  not  flatter  myself  that  Miss  Languish  will 
assign  what  cause'  of  dislike  she  can  have  to  my  son !  —  [Aside  to 
CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE.]  Why  don't  you  begin,  Jack?  —  Speak,  you 
puppy  —  speak. 

Mrs.  Mai.  It  is  impossible,  Sir  Anthony,  she  can  have  any. 
She  will  not  say  she  has.  —  [Aside  to  LYDIA.]  Answer,  hussy !  why 
don't  you  answer  ? 

Sir  Anth.  Then,  madam,  I  trust  that  a  childish  and  hasty  pre- 
dilection will  be  no  bar  to  Jack's  happiness.  —  [Aside  to  CAPTAIN 
ABSOLUTE.]  —  Zounds  !  sirrah  !  why  don't  you  speak ! 

Lyd.  [Aside.]  I  think  my  lover  seems  as  little  inclined  to 
conversation  as  myself.  —  How  strangely  blind  my  aunt  must 
be! 

Abs.  Hem  !  hem  !  madam  —  hem  !  —  [Attempts  to  speak,  then 
returns  to  SIR  ANTHONY.]  Faith  !  sir,  I  am  so  confounded  !  —  and  — 


A    COMEDY.  151 

so  —  so  —  confused  !  —  I  told  you  I  should  be  so,  sir  —  I  knew  it.  — 
The  —  the  —  tremor  of  my  passion  entirely  takes  away  my  presence 
of  mind. 

Sir  AntJi.  But  it  don't  take  away  your  voice,  fool,  does  it  ? —  Go 
up,  and  speak  to  her  directly ! 

[CAPTAIN    ABSOLUTE   makes  signs  to   MRS.    MALAPKOP  to 

leave  them  together. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Sir  Anthony,  shall  we  leave  them  together  ?  —  [Aside 
to  LYDIA.]  Ah  !  you  stubborn  little  vixen  ! 

Sir  Anth.  Not  yet,  ma'am,  not  yet  !  —  [Aside  to  CAPTAIN 
ABSOLUTE.]  What  the  devil  are  you  at  .*•  unlock  your  jaws,  sirrah, 
or 

Abs.  [Aside.]  Now  Heaven  send  she  may  be  too  sullen  to  look 
round!  —  I  must  disguise  my  voice.  —  [Draws  near  LYDIA,  and  speaks 
in  a  low  hoarse  tone.'}  Will  not  Miss  Languish  lend  an  ear  to  the 
mild  accents  of  true  love  ?  Will  not 

Sir  Anth.  What  the  devil  ails  the  fellow?  Why  don't  you 
speak  out  ?  —  not  stand  croaking  like  a  frog  in  a  quinsy ! 

Abs.  The  —  the  —  excess  of  my  awe,  and  my — my  —  my  mod- 
esty, quite  choke  me ! 

Sir  Anth.  Ah  !  your  modesty  again  !  —  I  '11  tell  you  what,  Jack ; 
if  you  don't  speak  out  directly,  and  glibly  too,  I  shall  be  in  such 
a  rage !  —  Mrs.  Malaprop,  I  wish  the  lady  would  favor  us  with 
something  more  than  a  side-front. 

[MRS.  MALAPROP  seems  to  cJiidc  LYDIA. 

Abs.  [Aside.]  So  all  will  out,  I  see !  —  [Goes  up  to  LYDIA, 
speaks  softly.]  Be  not  surprised,  my  Lydia,  suppress  all  surprise  at 
present. 

Lyd.  [Aside.}  Heavens !  't  is  Beverley's  voice  !  Sure  he  can't 
have  imposed  on  Sir  Anthony  too  !  —  [Looks  round  by  degrees,  then 


152  THE  RIVALS. 

starts  up.]  Is  this  possible  !  —  my  Beverley  !  —  how  can  this  be  ? — 
my  Beverley  ? 

Ads.    Ah  !  't  is  all  over.  [Aside. 

Sir  Anth.  Beverley  !  —  the  devil  —  Beverley ! —  What  can  the  girl 
mean  ?  —  This  is  my  son,  Jack  Absolute. 

Mrs.  Mai.  For  shame,  hussy  !  for  shame !  your  head  runs  so  on 
that  fellow,  that  you  have  him  always  in  your  eyes !  —  beg  Captain 
Absolute's  pardon  directly. 

Lyd.    I  see  no  Captain  Absolute,  but  my  loved  Beverley ! 

Sir  Anth.  Zounds  !  the  girl 's  mad !  —  her  brain  's  turned  by 
reading. 

Mrs.  Mai.  O'  my  conscience,  I  believe  so !  —  What  do  you 
mean  by  Beverley,  hussy  ?  —  You  saw  Captain  Absolute  before 
to-day ;  there  he  is  —  your  husband  that  shall  be. 

Lyd.    With  all  my  soul,  ma'am  —  when  I  refuse  my  Beverley 

Sir  Anth.  Oh  !  she 's  as  mad  as  Bedlam  !  —  or  has  this  fellow 
been  playing  us  a  rogue's  trick!  —  Come  here,  sirrah,  who  the 
devil  are  you  ? 

Abs.  Faith,  sir,  I  am  not  quite  clear  myself ;  but  I  '11  endeavor 
to  recollect. 

Sir  Anth.  Are  you  my  son  or  not  ?  —  answer  for  your  mother, 
you  dog,  if  you  won't  for  me. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Ay,  sir,  who  are  you  ?  Oh,  mercy !  I  begin  to 
suspect ! — 

Abs.  [Aside.]  Ye  powers  of  Impudence,  befriend  me!  —  [Aloud.} 
Sir  Anthony,  most  assuredly  I  am  your  wife's  son ;  and  that- 1  sin- 
cerely believe  myself  to  be  yours  also,  I  hope  my  duty  has  always 
shown.  —  Mrs.  Malaprop,  I  am  your  most  respectful  admirer,  and 
shall  be  proud  to  add  affectionate  nephew.  —  I  need  not  tell  my 
Lydia  that  she  sees  her  faithful  Beverley,  who,  knowing  the  singu- 


A    COMEDY.  153 

lar  generosity  of  her  temper,  assumed  that  name  and  station,  which 
has  proved  a  test  of  the  most  disinterested  love,  which  he  now 
hopes  to  enjoy  in  a  more  elevated  character. 

Lyd.    So! — there  will  be  no  elopement  after  all!         [Sullenly. 

Sir  Anth.  Upon  my  soul,  Jack,  thou  art  a  very  impudent 
fellow !  to  do  you  justice,  I  think  I  never  saw  a  piece  of  more 
consummate  assurance! 

Abs.  Oh,  you  flatter  me,  sir  —  you  compliment — 'tis  my  mod- 
esty, you  know,  sir — my  modesty,  that  has  stood  in  my  way. 

Sir  Anth.  Well,  I  am  glad  you  are  not  the  dull,  insensible 
varlet  you  pretended  to  be,  however !  — I  'm  glad  you  have  made 
a  fool  of  your  father,  you  dog — I  am.  —  So  this  was  your  penitence, 
your  duty  and  obedience  !  —  I  thought  it  was  damned  sudden  ! —  You 
never  heard  their  names  before,  not  you  !  —  what  the  LANGUISHES 
of  Worcestershire,  hey  ?  —  if  you  could  please  me  in  the  affair  it 
was  all  you  desired  /  —  Ah  !  you  dissembling  villain  !  —  What !  — 
[Pointing  to  LYDIA]  she  squints,  don't  she?  —  a  little  red-haired 
girl! — hey?  —  Why,  you  hypocritical  young  rascal!  —  I  wonder 
you  an't  ashamed  to  hold  up  your  head  ! 

Abs.  'T  is  with  difficulty,  sir.  —  I  am  confused  —  very  much  con- 
fused, as  you  must  perceive. 

Mrs,  Mai.  O  Lud  !  Sir  Anthony  ! — a  new  light  breaks  in  upon 
me  !  —  hey  ! —  how  !  what !  captain,  did  you  write  the  letters  then  ? — 
What  —  am  I  to  thank  you  for  the  elegant  compilation  of  an  old 
weather-beaten  she-dragon  —  hey!  —  Oh,  mercy! — was  it  you  that 
reflected  on  my  parts  of  speech  ? 

Abs.  Dear  sir !  my  modesty  will  be  overpowered  at  last,  if 
you  don't  assist  me  —  I  shall  certainly  not  be  able  to  stand  it! 

Sir  Anth.  Come,  come,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  we  must  forget  and 
forgive  ;  —  odds  life  !  matters  have  taken  so  clever  a  turn  all  of  a 


154  THE  RIVALS. 

sudden,    that    I    could  find   in   my  heart   to   be   so   good-humored ! 
and  so  gallant  !  hey !  Mrs.  Malaprop ! 

Mrs.  Mai.  Well,  Sir  Anthony,  since  you  desire  it,  we  will  not 
anticipate  the  past!  —  so  mind,  young  people  —  our  retrospection 
will  be  all  to  the  future. 

Sir  Anth.  Come,  we  must  leave  them  together  ;  Mrs.  Malaprop, 
they  long  to  fly  into  each  other's  arms,  I  warrant! — Jack  —  isn't 
the  cheek  as  I  said,  hey? — and  the  eye,  you  rogue!  —  and  the 
lip  —  hey?  Come,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  we'll  not  disturb  their  tender- 
ness—  theirs  is  the  time  of  life  for  happiness! — YoutKs  the 
season  made  for  joy — [Sings] —  hey! — Odds  life!  I'm  in  such 
spirits, —  I  don't  know  what  I  could  not  do!  —  Permit  me,  ma'am  — 
[Gives  his  hand  to  MRS.  MALAPROP.]  [Sings.]  Tol-de-rol  —  'gad,  I 
should  like  to  have  a  little  fooling  myself — Tol-de-rol!  de-rol. 

[Exit,  singing  and  handing  MRS.  MALAPROP. —  LYDIA  sits 

sullcntly  in  her  chair. 

Abs.  [Aside.]  So  much  thought  bodes  me  no  good. —  [Aloud.] 
So  grave,  Lydia ! 

Lyd.    Sir! 

Abs.  [Aside]  So! — egad!  I  thought  as  much!  —  that  damned 
monosyllable  has  froze  me !  — [Aloud]  What,  Lydia,  now  that  we 
are  as  happy  in  our  friends'  consent,  as  in  our  mutual  vows 

Lyd.    Friends  consent  indeed  !  [Peevishly. 

Abs.  Come,  come,  we  must  lay  aside  some  of  our  romance 
—  a  little  wealth  and  comfort  may  be  endured  after  all.  And 
for  your  fortune,  the  lawyers  shall  make  such  settlements  as  

Lyd.    Lawyers  !  I  hate  lawyers  ! 

Abs.  Nay,  then,  we  will  not  wait  for  their  lingering  forms,  but 
instantly  procure  the  licence,  and 

Lyd.    The  licence  !  —  I  hate  licence  I 


A    COMEDY.  155 

Ads.  Oh,  my  love !  be  not  so  unkind !  —  thus  let  me  en- 
treat   {Kneeling. 

Lyd.  Psha  !  —  what  signifies  kneeling,  when  you  know  I  must 
have  you  ? 

Abs.  [Rising.]  Nay,  madam,  there  shall  be  no  constraint  upon 
your  inclinations,  I  promise  you. —  If  I  have  lost  your  heart  —  I 
resign  the  rest  —  [Aside.]  'Gad,  I  must  try  what  a  little  spirit 
will  do. 

Lyd.  [Rising.]  Then,  sir,  let  me  tell  you,  the  interest  you  had 
there  was  acquired  by  a  mean,  unmanly  imposition,  and  deserves 
the  punishment  of  fraud. — What,  you  have  been  treating  me  like  a 
child !  —  humoring  my  romance !  and  laughing,  I  suppose,  at  your 
success ! 

Abs.    You  wrong  me,    Lydia,   you   wrong   me — only   hear 

Lyd.  So,  while  /  fondly  imagined  we  were  deceiving  my  rela- 
tions, and  flattered  myself  that  I  should  outwit  and  incense  them 
all  —  behold  my  hopes  are  to  be  crushed  at  once,  by  my  aunt's 
consent  and  approbation — and  7  am  myself  the  only  dupe  at 
last !  —  [  Walking  about  in  a  heat]  But  here,  sir,  here  is  the  pic- 
ture —  Beverley's  picture  !  [taking  a  miniature  from  her  bosom]  which 
I  have  worn,  night  and  day,  in  spite  of  threats  and  entreaties!  — 
There,  sir,  [flings  it  to  him]  and  be  assured  I  throw  the  original 
from  my  heart  as  easily. 

Abs.  Nay,  nay,  ma'am,  we  will  not  differ  as  to  that. —  Here, 
[taking  out  a  picture]  here  is  Miss  Lydia  Languish. —  What  a  dif- 
ference! —  ay,  there  is  the  heavenly  assenting  smile  that  first  gave 
soul  and  spirit  to  my  hopes!  —  those  are  the  lips  which  sealed 
a  vow,  as  yet  scarce  dry  in  Cupid's  calendar !  and  there  the  half- 
resentful  blush,  that  would  have  checked  the  ardor  of  my 
thanks!  —  Well,  all  that 's  past ! — all  over  indeed  ! — There,  madam  — 


I  $6  THE  RIVALS. 

in  beauty,  that  copy  is  not  equal  to  you,  but  in  my  mind  its 
merit  over  the  original,  in  being  still  the  same,  is  such  — 
that— I  cannot  find  in  my  heart  to  part  with-  it.  \Puts  it  tip  again. 

Lyd.  [Softening.'}  'Tis  your  own  doing,  sir  —  I  —  I  —  I  suppose 
you  are  perfectly  satisfied. 

Abs.  Oh,  most  certainly  —  sure,  now,  this  is  much  better  than 
being  in  love  !  —  ha  !  ha !  ha  !  —  there  's  some  spirit  in  this  !  — What 
signifies  breaking  some  scores  of  solemn  promises: — all  that's  of 
no  consequence,  you  know.— To  be  sure  people  will  say  that 
miss  don't  know  her  own  mind — but  never  mind  that!  Or, 
perhaps,  they  may  be  ill-natured  enough  to  hint  that  the  gentle- 
man grew  tired  of  the  lady  and  forsook  her  —  but  don't  let  that 
fret  you. 

Lyd.  There  is  no  bearing  his  insolence.  \Bursts  into  tears. 

Re-Enter  MRS.  MALAPROP  and  SIR  ANTHONY  ABSOLUTE. 

Mrs.  Mai.  \Entct  ing^\  Come,  we  must  interrupt  your  billing 
and  cooing  awhile. 

Lyd.  This  is  worse  than  your  treachery  and  deceit,  you  base 
ingrate !  [Sobbing. 

Sir  Anth.  What  the  devil 's  the  matter  now  !  —  Zounds.  Mrs. 
Malaprop,  this  is  the  oddest  billing  and  cooing  I  ever  heard !  — 
but  what  the  deuce  is  the  meaning  of  it?  —  lam  quite  astonished! 

Abs.   Ask  the  lady,  sir. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Oh  mercy !  —  I  'm  quite  analyzed,  for  my  part  !  — 
Why,  Lydia,  what  is  the  reason  of  this  ? 

Lyd.   Ask  the  gentleman,  ma'am. 

Sir  Anth.  Zounds !  I  shall  be  in  a  frenzy !  —  Why,  Jack,  you 
are  not  come  out  to  be  any  one  else,  are  you  ? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Ay,  sir,  there  's  no  more  trick,  is  there  ?  —  you  are  not 
like  Cerberus,  three  gentlemen  at  once,  arc  you  ? 


A    COMEDY.  157 

Abs.  You'll  not  let  me  speak  —  I  say  the  lady  can  account  for 
this  much  better  than  I  can. 

Lyd.  Ma'am,  you  once  commanded  me  never  to  think  of  Beverley 
again  —  there  is  the  man  —  I  now  obey  you  :  for,  from  this  moment, 
I  renounce  him  for  ever.  \Exit  LYDIA. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Oh,  mercy  !  and  miracles  !  what  a  turn  here  is  —  why 
sure,  captain,  you  have  n't  behaved  disrespectfully  to  my  niece. 

Sir  Anth.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  —  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  —  now  I  see  it.  Ha  !  ha  ! 
ha  !  —  now  I  see  it  —  you  have  been  too  lively,  Jack. 

Abs.    Nay,  sir,  upon  my  word 

Sir  Anth.    Come,  no  lying,  Jack  —  I  'm  sure  't  was  so. 

Mrs.  Mai.    O  Lud  !  Sir  Anthony  !  —  Oh,  fie,  captain ! 

Abs.    Upon  my  soul,  ma'am 

Sir  Anth.  Come,  no  excuses,  Jack ;  why,  your  father,  you  rogue, 
was  so  before  you :  —  the  blood  of  the  Absolutes  was  always  im- 
patient. —  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  poor  little  Lydia !  why,  you  've  frightened 
her,  you  dog,  you  have. 

Abs.  '  By  all  that 's  good,  sir 

Sir  Anth.  Zounds!  say  no  more,  I  tell  you — Mrs.  Malaprop 
shall  make  your  peace. — You  must  make  his  peace,  Mrs.  Mala- 
prop :  —  you  must  tell  her  't  is  Jack's  way  —  tell  her  't  is  all  our 
ways  —  it  runs  in  the  blood  of  our  family!  —  Come  away,  Jack  — 
Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Mrs.  Malaprop  —  a  young  villain  !  [Pushes  him  out. 

Mrs.  Mai.    O  !  Sir  Anthony  !  —  Oh,  fie,  captain  ! 

\Exeunt  severally. 


158  THE  RIVALS. 

SCENE    III.  —  The  North  Parade. 
Enter  SIR  Lucius  O'TRIGGER. 

Sir  Luc.  I  wonder  where  this  Captain  Absolute  hides  himself ! 
Upon  my  conscience  !  these  officers  are  always  in  one's  way  in  love 
affairs  :  —  I  remember  I  might  have  married  Lady  Dorothy  Carmine, 
if  it  had  not  been  for  a  little  rogue  of  a  major,  who  ran  away  with 
her  before  she  could  get  a  sight  of  me  !  And  I  wonder  too  what  it 
is  the  ladies  can  see  in  them  to  be  so  fond  of  them  —  unless  it  be  a 
touch  of  the  old  serpent  in  'em,  that  makes  the  little  creatures  be 
caught,  like  vipers,  with  a  bit  of  red  cloth.  Ha!  isn't  this  the 
captain  coming  ?  —  faith  it  is  !  — There  is  a  probability  of  succeeding 
about  that  fellow  that  is  mighty  provoking !  Who  the  devil  is  he 
talking  to  ?  [Steps  aside. 

Enter  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE. 

Abs.  [Aside.}  To  what  fine  purpose  I  have  been  plotting  !  a  noble 
reward  for  all  my  schemes,  upon  my  soul !  —  a  little  gypsy  !  —  I  did 
not  think  her  romance  could  have  made  her  so  damned  absurd  either. 
'Sdeath,  I  never  was  in  a  worse  humor  in  my  life  !  —  I  could  cut  my 
own  throat,  or  any  other  person's,  with  the  greatest  pleasure  in  the 
world  ! 

Sir  Luc.  Oh,  faith  !  I  'm  in  the  luck  of  it.  I  never  could  have 
found  him  in  a  sweeter  temper  for  my  purpose  —  to  be  sure  I  'm  just 
come  in  the  nick !  Now  to  enter  into  conversation  with  him,  and  so 
quarrel  genteelly.  —  [Goes  up  to  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE.]  —  With  regard 
to  that  matter,  captain,  I  must  beg  leave  to  differ  in  opinion  with 
you. 

Abs.  Upon  my  word,  then,  you  must  be  a  very  subtle  disputant : 
—  because,  sir,  I  happened  just  then  to  be  giving  no  opinion 
at  all 


A    COMEDY.  159 

Sir  Luc.  That 's  no  reason.  For,  give  me  leave  to  tell  you,  a 
man  may  think  an  untruth  as  well  as  speak  one. 

Abs.  Very  true,  sir  ;  but  if  a  man  never  utters  his  thoughts, 
I  should  think  they  might  stand  a  chance  of  escaping  con- 
troversy. 

Sir  Luc.  Then,  sir,  you  differ  in  opinion  with  me,  which  amounts 
to  the  same  thing. 

Abs.  Hark  'ee,  Sir  Lucius  ;  if  I  had  not  before  known  you  to 
be  a  gentleman,  upon  my  soul,  I  should  not  have  discovered  it  at 
this  interview  :  for  what  you  can  drive  at,  unless  you  mean  to  quar- 
rel with  me,  I  cannot  conceive  ! 

Sir  Luc.  I  humbly  thank  you,  sir,  for  the  quickness  of  your 
apprehension.  —  [Bowing.}  You  have  named  the  very  thing  I 
would  be  at. 

Abs.  Very  well,  sir  ;  I  shall  certainly  not  balk  your  inclinations. 
—  But  I  should  be  glad  you  would  please  to  explain  your  motives. 

Sir  Luc.  Pray  sir,  be  easy  ;  —  the  quarrel  is  a  very  pretty  quarrel 
as  it  stands  ;  —  we  should  only  spoil  it  by  trying  to  explain  it.  — 
However,  your  memory  is  very  short,  or  you  could  not  have  forgot 
an  affront  you  passed  on  me  within  this  week.  —  So,  no  more,  but 
name  your  time  and  place. 

Abs.  Well,  sir,  since  you  are  so  bent  on  it,  the  sooner  the  better ; 
let  it  be  this  evening  —  here  by  the  Spring  Gardens. — We  shall 
scarcely  be  interrupted. 

Sir  Luc.  Faith !  that  same  interruption  in  affairs  of  this  nature 
shows  very  great  ill-breeding.  —  I  don't  know  what 's  the  reason,  but 
in  England,  if  a  thing  of  this  kind  gets  wind,  people  make  such  a 
pother,  that  a  gentleman  can  never  fight  in  peace  and  quietness. 
However,  if  it 's  the  same  to  you,  captain,  I  should  take  it  as  a  par- 
ticular kindness  if  you  'd  let  us  meet  in  King's-Mead-Fields,  as  a  little 


160  THE  RIVALS. 

business  will  call  me  there  about  six  o'clock,  and  I  may  despatch 
both  matters  at  once. 

Ads.  'T  is  the  same  to  me  exactly.  —  A  little  after  six,  then,  we 
will  discuss  this  matter  more  seriously. 

Sir  Luc.  If  you  please,  sir  ;  there  will  be  very  pretty  small-sword 
light,  though  it  won't  do  for  a  long  shot.  —  So  that  matter 's  settled, 
and  my  mind  's  at  ease.  [Exit  SIR  Lucius. 

Enter  FAULKLAND,  meeting  ABSOLUTE. 

Abs.  Well  met !  I  was  going  to  look  for  you.  —  O  Faulkland  !  all 
the  demons  of  spite  and  disappointment  have  conspired  against  me  ! 
I  'm  so  vexed,  that  if  I  had  not  the  prospect  of  a  resource  in  being 
knocked  o'  the  head  by-and-by,  I  should  scarce  have  spirits  to  tell  you 
the  cause. 

Faulk.  What  can  you  mean  ?  —  Has  Lydia  changed  her  mind  ?  — 
I  should  have  thought  her  duty  and  inclination  would  now  have 
pointed  to  the  same  object. 

Abs.  Ay,  just  as  the  eyes  do  of  a  person  who  squints :  when  her 
love-eye  was  fixed  on  me,  t  'other,  her  eye  of  duty,  was  finely  obliqued  : 
but  when  duty  bid  her  point  that  the  same  way,  off  t'other  turned 
on  a  swivel,  and  secured  its  retreat  with  a  frown  ! 

Faulk.    But  what 's  the  resource  you 

Abs.  Oh,  to  wind  up  the  whole,  a  good-natured  Irishman  here  has 
—  [Mimicking  SIR  Lucius]  —  begged  leave  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
cutting  my  throat  :  and  I  mean  to  indulge  him  —  that 's  all. 

Faulk.     Prithee,  be  serious  ! 

Abs.  'Tis  fact,  upon  my  soul !  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger  —  you  know 
him  by  sight  —  for  some  affront,  —  which  I  am  sure  I  never  in- 
tended, has  obliged  me  to  meet  him  this  evening  at  six  o'clock  :  't  is 
on  that  account  I  wished  to  see  you  ;  —  you  must  go  with  me. 

Faulk.    Nay,  there  must  be  some  mistake,  sure.     Sir  Lucius  shall 


A    COMEDY.  l6l 

explain  himself,  and  I  dare  say  matters  may  be  accommodated.     But 
this  evening  did  you  say  ?     I  wish  it  had  been  any  other  time. 

Abs.  Why  ?  there  will  be  light  enough  :  there  will  (as  Sir  Lucius 
says),  "  be  very  pretty  small-sword  light,  though  it  will  not  do  for  a 
long  shot."  Confound  his  long  shots! 

Faulk.  But  I  am  myself  a  good  deal  ruffled  by  a  difference  I  have 
had  with  Julia  —  my  vile  tormenting  temper  has  made  me  treat  her 
so  cruelly,  that  I  shall  not  be  myself  till  we  are  reconciled. 

Abs.    By  heavens  !  Faulkland,  you  don't  deserve  her ! 

Enter  SERVANT,  gives  FAULKLAND  a  letter,  and  exit. 

Faulk.  O  Jack !  this  is  from  Julia.  I  dread  to  open  it !  I  fear 
it  maybe  to  take  a  last  leave!  —  perhaps  to  bid  me  return  her  letters, 
and  restore oh,  how  I  surfer  for  my  folly  ! 

Abs.  Here,  let  me  see.  —  [Takes  the  letter  and  opens  it.}  Ay,  a 
final  sentence,  indeed  !  —  't  is  all  over  with  you,  faith  ! 

Faulk.    Nay,  Jack,  don't  keep  me  in  suspense ! 

Abs.  Hear  then.  —  [Reads.]  As  I  am  convinced  that  my  dear 
Faulkland1  s  own  reflections  have  already  upbraided  him  for  his  last 
nnkindness  to  me,  I  will  not  add  a  ivord  on  the  subject.  I  wish  to 
speak  with  you  as  soon  as  possible.  Yours  ever  and  truly,  JULIA. 
There  's  stubbornness  and  resentment  for  you  !  —  [Gives  him  the 
letter}  Why,  man,  you  don't  seem  one  whit  the  happier  at  this ! 

Faulk.    Oh,  yes,  I  am  :  but  —  but 

Abs.  Confound  your  buts  !  you  never  hear  anything  that  would 
make  another  man  bless  himself,  but  you  immediately  damn  it  with 
a  but! 

Faulk.  Now,  Jack,  as  you  are  my  friend,  own  honestly  —  don't 
you  think  there  is  something  forward,  something  indelicate  in  this 
haste  to  forgive?  Women  should  never  sue  for  reconciliation  :  that 
should  always  come  from  us.  They  should  retain  their  coldness  till 


1 62  THE  RIVALS. 

wooed  to  kindness  ;  and  their  pardon,  like  their  love,  should  "  not 
unsought  be  won." 

Abs.  I  have  not  patience  to  listen  to  you !  thou  'rt  incorrigible ! 
so  say  no  more  on  the  subject.  I  must  go  to  settle  a  few  matters. 
Let  me  see  you  before  six,  remember,  at  my  lodgings.  A  poor 
industrious  devil  like  me,  who  have  toiled,  and  drudged,  and  plotted 
to  gain  my  ends,  and  am  at  last  disappointed  by  other  people's  folly, 
may  in  pity  be  allowed  to  swear  and  grumble  a  little ;  but  a  captious 
sceptic  in  love,  a  slave  to  fretfulness  and  whim,  who  has  no  difficul- 
ties but  of  his  own  creating,  is  a  subject  more  fit  for  ridicule  than 
compassion  !  [Exit  ABSOLUTE. 

Fanlk.  I  feel  his  reproaches ;  yet  I  would  not  change  this  too 
exquisite  nicety  for  the  gross  content  with  which  he  tramples  on  the 
thorns  of  love! — His  engaging  me  in  this  duel  has  started  an  idea 
in  my  head,  which  I  will  instantly  pursue.  I  '11  use  it  as  the  touch- 
stone of  Julia's  sincerity  and  disinterestedness.  If  her  love  prove 
pure  and  sterling  ore,  my  name  will  rest  on  it  with  honor ;  and  once 
I  've  stamped  it  there,  I  lay  aside  my  doubts  forever !  But  if  the 
dross  of  selfishness,  the  alloy  of  pride,  predominate,  'twill  be  best  to 
leave  her  as  a  toy  for  some  less  cautious  fool  to  sigh  for ! 

[Exit  FAULKLAND. 


A    COMEDY.  163 


ACT.    V. 
SCENE  I.  — JULIA'S  Dressing-Room, 

JULIA  discovered  alone. 

Jul.    How  this  message  has  alarmed  me !  what  dreadful  accident 
can  he  mean  ?  why  such  charge  to  be  alone  ?  —  O  Faulkland  !  —  how 
many  unhappy  moments  —  how  many  tears  have  you  cost  me. 
Enter  FAULKLAND. 

Jul.    What  means  this  ?  — why  this  caution,  Faulkland  ? 

Faulk.   Alas  !  Julia,  I  am  come  to  take  a  long  farewell. 

Jul.    Heavens  !  what  do  you  mean  ? 

Faulk.  You  see  before  you  a  wretch  whose  life  is  forfeited.  Nay, 
start  not !  —  the  infirmity  of  my  temper  has  drawn  all  this  misery  on 
me.  I  left  you  fretful  and  passionate  —  an  untoward  accident  drew 
me  into  a  quarrel  —  the  event  is,  that  I  must  fly  this  kingdom 
instantly.  O  Julia,  had  I  been  so  fortunate  as  to  have  called  you 
mine  entirely,  before  this  mischance  had  fallen  on  me,  I  should  not 
so  deeply  dread  my  banishment ! 

Jul.  My  soul  is  oppressed  with  sorrow  at  the  nature  of  your  mis- 
fortune :  had  these  adverse  circumstances  arisen  from  a  less  fatal 
cause,  I  should  have  felt  strong  comfort  in  the  thought  that  I  could 
now  chase  from  your  bosom  every  doubt  of  the  warm  sincerity  of 
my  love.  My  heart  has  long  known  no  other  guardian  —  I  now 
entrust  my  person  to  your  honor  —  we  will  fly  together.  When  safe 
from  pursuit,  my  father's  will  may  be  fulfilled  —  and  I  receive  a  legal 
claim  to  be  the  partner  of  your  sorrows  and  tenderest  comforter. 
Then  on  the  bosom  of  your  wedded  Julia,  you  may  lull  your  keen 


1 64  THE  RIVALS. 

regret  to  slumbering ;  while  virtuous  love,  with  a  cherub's  hand,  shall 
smooth  the  brow  of  upbraiding  thought,  and  pluck  the  thorn  from 
compunction. 

Faulk.  O  Julia !  I  am  bankrupt  in  gratitude !  but  the  time  is  so 
pressing,  it  calls  on  you  for  so  hasty  a  resolution.  —  Would  you  not 
wish  some  hours  to  weigh  the  advantages  you  forego,  and  what  little 
compensation  poor  Faulkland  can  make  you  beside  his  solitary  love  ? 

Jul.  I  ask  not  a  moment.  No,  Faulkland,  I  have  loved  you  for 
yourself :  and  if  I  now,  more  than  ever,  prize  the  solemn  engagement 
which  so  long  has  pledged  us  to  each  other,  it  is  because  it  leaves  no 
room  for  hard  aspersions  on  my  fame,  and  puts  the  seal  of  duty  to 
an  act  of  love.  But  let  us  not  linger.  Perhaps  this  delay 

Faulk.  'Twill  be  better  I  should  not  venture  out  again  till  dark. 
Yet  am  I  grieved  to  think  what  numberless  distresses  will  press 
heavy  on  your  gentle  disposition  ! 

Jul.  Perhaps  your  fortune  may  be  forfeited  by  this  unhappy  act. 
—  I  know  not  whether  't  is  so  ;  but  sure  that  alone  can  never  make 
us  unhappy.  The  little  I  have  will  be  sufficient  to  support  us ;  and 
exile  never  should  be  splendid. 

Faulk.  Ay,  but  in  such  an  abject  state  of  life,  my  wounded  pride 
perhaps  may  increase  the  natural  fretfulness  of  my  temper,  till  I 
become  a  rude,  morose  companion,  beyond  your  patience  to  endure. 
Perhaps  the  recollection  of  a  deed  my  conscience  cannot  justify  may 
haunt  me  in  such  gloomy  and  unsocial  fits,  that  I  shall  hate  the 
tenderness  that  would  relieve  me,  break  from  your  arms,  and  quarrel 
with  your  fondness ! 

Jul.  If  your  thoughts  should  assume  so  unhappy  a  bent,  you  will 
the  more  want  some  mild  and  affectionate  spirit  to  watch  over  and 
console  you :  one  who,  by  bearing  your  infirmities  with  gentleness 
and  resignation,  may  teach  you  so  to  bear  the  evils  of  your  fortune. 


A    COMEDY.  165 

Faulk.  Julia,  I  have  proved  you  to  the  quick  !  and  with  this  use- 
less device  I  throw  away  all  my  doubts.  How  shall  I  plead  to  be 
forgiven  this  last  unworthy  effect  of  my  restless,  unsatisfied  dis- 
position ? 

Jnl.    Has  no  such  disaster  happened  as  you  related  ? 

Faulk.  I  am  ashamed  to  own  that  it  was  pretended  ;  yet  in  pity, 
Julia,  do  not  kill  me  with  resenting  a  fault  which  never  can  be 
repeated  :  but  sealing,  this  once,  my  pardon,  let  me  to-morrow, 
in  the  face  of  Heaven,  receive  my  future  guide  and  monitress, 
and  expiate  my  past  folly  by  years  of  tender  adoration. 

Jul.  Hold,  Faulkland  !  —  that  you  are  free  from  a  crime,  which  I 
before  feared  to  name,  Heaven  knows  how  sincerely  I  rejoice ! 
These  are  tears  of  thankfulness  for  that !  But  that  your  cruel 
doubts  should  have  urged  you  to  an  imposition  that  has  wrung 
my  heart  gives  me  now  a  pang  more  keen  than  I  can  express! 

Faulk.    By  Heavens  !  Julia 

Jul.  Yet  hear  me.  —  My  father  loved  you,  Faulkland  !  and  you 
preserved  the  life  that  tender  parent  gave  me ;  in  his  presence  I 
pledged  my  hand  —  joyfully  pledged  it  —  where  before  I  had  given 
my  heart.  When,  soon  after,  I  lost  that  parent,  it  seemed  to  me 
that  Providence  had,  in  Faulkland,  shown  me  whither  to  transfer, 
without  a  pause,  my  grateful  duty,  as  well  as  my  affection  :  hence 
I  have  been  content  to  bear  from  you  what  pride  and  delicacy  would 
have  forbid  me  from  another.  I  will  not  upbraid  you  by  repeating 
how  you  have  trifled  with  my  sincerity 

Faulk.    I  confess  it  all !  yet  hear 

Jnl.  After  such  a  year  of  trial,  I  might  have  flattered  myself  that 
I  should  not  have  been  insulted  with  a  new  probation  of  my  sin- 
cerity, as  cruel  as  unnecessary  !  I  now  see  it  is  not  in  your  nature 
to  be  content  or  confident  in  love.  With  this  conviction  —  I  never 


1 66  THE  RIVALS. 

will  be  yours.  While  I  had  hopes  that  my  persevering  attention 
and  unreproaching  kindness  might  in  time  reform  your  temper,  I 
should  have  been  happy  to  have  gained  a  dearer  influence  over  you  ; 
but  I  will  not  furnish  you  with  a  licensed  power  to  keep  alive  an 
incorrigible  fault  at  the  expense  of  one  who  never  would  contend 
with  you. 

Faulk.    Nay,  but  Julia,  by  my  soul  and  honor,  if  after  this 

Jul.  But  one  word  more.  —  As  my  faith  has  once  been  given  to 
you,  I  never  will  barter  it  with  another.  — I  shall  pray  for  your 
happiness  with  the  truest  sincerity ;  and  the  dearest  blessing  I 
can  ask  of  Heaven  to  send  you  will  be  to  charm  you  from  that 
unhappy  temper  which  alone  has  prevented  the  performance  of 
our  solemn  engagement.  —  All  I  request  of  you  is,  that  ycu  will 
yourself  reflect  upon  this  infirmity,  and  when  you  number  up  the 
many  true  delights  it  has  deprived  you  of,  let  it  not  be  your  least 
regret,  that  it  lost  you  the  love  of  one  —  who  would  have  followed 
you  in  beggary  through  the  world !  [Exit. 

Faulk.  She's  gone — forever!  —  There  was  an  awful  resolution 
in  her  manner,  that  riveted  me  to  my  place.  —  O  fool! — dolt!  — 
barbarian  !  Cursed  as  I  am,  with  more  imperfections  than  my 
fellow  wretches,  kind  fortune  sent  a  heaven-gifted  cherub  to  my  aid, 
and,  like  a  ruffian,  I  have  driven  her  from  my  side !  —  I  must  now 
haste  to  my  appointment.  Well,  my  mind  is  tuned  for  such  a 
scene.  I  shall  wish  only  to  become  a  principal  in  it,  and  reverse 
the  tale  my  cursed  folly  put  me  upon  forging  here.  —  O  Love ! 
—  tormentor  !  —  fiend  !  —  whose  influence,  like  the  moon's,  acting 
on  men  of  dull  souls,  makes  idiots  of  them,  but,  meeting  subtler 
spirits,  betrays  their  course  and  urges  sensibility  to  madness ! 

[Exit. 


A    COMEDY.  167 

Enter  LYDIA  and  MAID. 

Maid,  My  mistress,  ma'am,  I  know,  was  just  here  now  —  perhaps 
she  is  only  in  the  next  room.  {Exit  MAID. 

Lyd.  Heigh-ho !  Though  he  has  used  me  so,  this  fellow  runs 
strangely  in  my  head.  I  believe  one  lecture  from  my  grave  cousin 
will  make  me  recall  him.  [Re-enter  JULIA.]  O  Julia,  I  am  come  to 
you  with  such  an  appetite  for  consolation.  —  Lud  !  child,  what 's  the 
matter  with  you  ?  You  have  been  crying  !  —  I  '11  be  hanged  if  that 
Faulkland  has  not  been  tormenting  you  ! 

Jitl.  You  mistake  the  cause  of  my  uneasiness  !  —  Something  has 
flurried  me  a  little.  Nothing  that  you  can  guess  at.  —  \Asidc^\  I 
would  not  accuse  Faulkland  to  a  sister ! 

Lyd.  Ah  !  whatever  vexations  you  may  have,  I  can  assure  you 
mine  surpass  them.  You  know  who  Beverley  proves  to  be  ? 

Jul,  I  will  now  own  to  you,  Lydia,  that  Mr.  Faulkland  had  before 
informed  me  of  the  whole  affair.  Had  young  Absolute  been  the 
person  you  took  him  for  I  should  not  have  accepted  your  confi- 
dence on  the  subject,  without  a  serious  endeavor  to  counteract 
your  caprice. 

Lyd,  So,  then,  I  see  I  have  been  deceived  by  every  one!  But 
I  don't  care  —  I  '11  never  have  him. 

Jnl.    Nay,  Lydia 

Lyd.  Why,  is  it  not  provoking  ?  when  I  thought  we  were  coming 
to  the  prettiest  distress  imaginable,  to  find  myself  made  a  mere 
Smithfield  bargain  of  at  last !  There,  had  I  projected  one  of  the 
most  sentimental  elopements!  —  so  becoming  a  disguise!  —  so  ami- 
able a  ladder  of  ropes!  —  Conscious  moon  —  four  horses  —  Scotch 
parson  —  with  such  surprise  to  Mrs.  Malaprop  —  and  such  para- 
graphs in  the  newspapers  !  —  Oh,  I  shall  die  with  disappointment. 

JuL    I  don't  wonder  at  it ! 


1 68  THE  RIVALS. 

Lyd.  Now  —  sad  reverse  !  —  what  have  I  to  expect,  but,  after  a 
deal  of  flimsy  preparations  with  a  bishop's  licence,  and  my  aunt's 
blessing,  to  go  simpering  up  to  the  altar  ;  or  perhaps  be  cried  three 
times  in  a  country  church,  and  have  an  unmannerly  fat  clerk  ask  the 
consent  of  every  butcher  in  the  parish  to  join  John  Absolute  and 
Lydia  Languish,  spinster!  Oh  that  I  should  live  to  hear  myself 
called  Spinster ! 

Jul.    Melancholy  indeed ! 

Lyd.  How  mortifying,  to  remember  the  dear  delicious  shifts  I 
used  to  be  put  to,  to  gain  half  a  minute's  conversation  with  this 
fellow !  —  How  often  have  I  stole  forth,  in  the  coldest  night  in 
January,  and  found  him  in  the  garden,  stuck  like  a  dripping  statue ! 
There  would  he  kneel  to  me  in  the  snow,  and  sneeze  and  cough  so 
pathetically!  he  shivering  with  cold  and  I  with  apprehension!  and 
while  the  freezing  blast  numbed  our  joints,  how  warmly  would  he 
press  me  to  pity  his  flame,  and  glow  with  mutual  ardor! — Ah, 
Julia,  that  was  something  like  being  in  love. 

Jul.  If  I  were  in  spirits,  Lydia,  I  should  chide  you  only  by  laugh- 
ing heartily  at  you  ;  but  it  suits  more  the  situation  of  my  mind,  at 
present,  earnestly  to  entreat  you  not  to  let  a  man,  who  loves  you 
with  sincerity,  suffer  that  unhappiness  from  your  caprice,  which  I 
know  too  well  caprice' can  inflict. 

Lyd.    O  Lud  !  what  has  brought  my  aunt  here  ? 

Enter  MRS.  MALAPROP,  FAG,  and  DAVID. 

Mrs.  Mai.  So!  so!  here's  fine  work !  —  here's  fine  suicide,  par- 
ricide, and  simulation,  going  on  in  the  fields !  and  Sir  Anthony  not 
to  be  found  to  prevent  the  antistrophe  ! 

/;//.    For  Heaven's  sake,  madam,  what 's  the  meaning  of  this  ? 

Mrs.  Mai.  That  gentleman  can  tell  you —  't  was  he  enveloped  the 
affair  to  me. 


A    COMEDY.  169 

Lyd.    Do,  sir,  will  you,  inform  us  ?  [To  FAG. 

Fag.  Ma'am,  I  should  hold  myself  very  deficient  in  every  requi- 
site that  forms  the  man  of  breeding,  if  I  delayed  a  moment  to  give 
all  the  information  in  my  power  to  a  lady  so  deeply  interested  in  the 
affair  as  you  are. 

Lyd.    But  quick  !  quick,  sir ! 

Fag.  True,  ma'am,  as  you  say,  one  should  be  quick  in  divulging 
matters  of  this  nature  ;  for  should  we  be  tedious,  perhaps  while  we 
are  flourishing  on  the  subject,  two  or  three  lives  may  be  lost  ! 

Lyd.  O  patience  !  —  Do,  ma'am,  for  Heaven's  sake  !  tell  us  what 
is  the  matter  ? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Why,  murder  's  the  matter !  slaughter 's  the  matter  ! 
killing  's  the  matter!  — but  he  can  tell  you  the  perpendiculars. 

Lyd.    Then,  prithee,  sir,  be  brief. 

Fag:  Why  then,  ma'am,  as  to  murder —  I  cannot  take  upon  me  to 
say  —  and  as  to  slaughter,  or  manslaughter,  that  will  be  as  the  jury 
finds  it. 

Lyd.    But  who,  sir  —  who  are  engaged  in  this  ? 

Fag.  Faith,  ma'am,  one  is  a  young  gentleman  whom  I  should  be 
very  sorry  anything  was  to  happen  to  —  a  very  pretty  behaved 
gentleman  !  We  have  lived  much  together,  and  always  on  terms. 

Lyd.    But  who  is  this  ?  who  ?  who  ?  who  ? 

Fag.  My  master,  ma'am  —  my  master  —  I  speak  of  my  master. 

Lyd.    Heavens !     What,  Captain  Absolute  ! 

Mrs.  Mai.    Oh,  to  be  sure,  you  are  frightened  now ! 
Jul.    But  who  are  with  him,  sir  ? 

Fag.  As  to  the  rest,  ma'am,  this  gentleman  can  inform  you  better 
than  I. 

Jul.    Do  speak,  friend.  [To  DAVID. 

Dav.    Look'ee,  my  lady  —  by  the  mass!  there's  mischief  going 


I/O  THE  RIVALS. 

on.  Folks  don't  use  to  meet  for  amusement  with  firearms,  firelocks, 
fire-engines,  fire-screens,  fire-office,  and  the  devil  knows  what  other 
crackers  beside !  —  This,  my  lady,  I  say,  has  an  angry  favor. 

Jul.    But  who  is  there  beside  Captain  Absolute,  friend  ? 

Dav.  My  poor  master — under  favor  for  mentioning  him  first. 
You  know  me,  my  lady  —  I  am  David  —  and  my  master  of  course, 
is,  or  was,  Squire  Acres.  Then  comes  Squire  Faulkland. 

Jnl.    Do,  ma'am,  let  us  instantly  endeavor  to  prevent  mischief. 

Mrs.  Mai.  O  fie  !  —  it  would  be  very  inelegant  in  us  :  —  we  should 
only  participate  things. 

Dav.  Ah  !  do,  Mrs.  Aunt,  save  a  few  lives  —  they  are  desperately 
given,  believe  me. — Above  all,  there  is  that  blood-thirsty  Philistine, 
Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger  ?  O  mercy !  have  they  drawn 
poor  little  dear  Sir  Lucius  into  the  scrape?  —  Why,  how  you  stand, 
girl !  you  have  no  more  feeling  than  one  of  the  Derbyshire  petri- 
factions ! 

Lyd.    What  are  we  to  do,  madam  ? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Why  fly  with  the  utmost  felicity,  to  be  sure,  to  prevent 
mischief !  —  Here,  friend,  you  can  show  us  the  place  ? 

Fag.  If  you  please,  ma'am,  I  will  conduct  you.  —  David,  do  you 
look  for  Sir  Anthony.  [Exit  DAVID, 

Mrs.  Mai.  Come,  girls !  this  gentleman  will  exhort  us.  —  Come, 
sir,  you  're  our  envoy  —  lead  the  way,  and  we  '11  precede. 

Fag.    Not  a  step  before  the  ladies  for  the  world ! 

Mrs.  Mai.    You  're  sure  you  know  the  spot  ? 

Fag.  I  think  I  can  find  it,  ma'am  ;  and  one  good  thing  is,  we  shall 
hear  the  report  of  the  pistols  as  we  draw  near,  so  we  can't  well  miss 
them  ;  —  never  fear,  ma'am,  never  fear.  [Exeunt,  Jie  talking. 


A    COMEDY.  171 

SCENE  II.  —  The  South  Parade. 
Enter  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE,  putting  his  szuord  under  his  great  coat. 

Abs.  A  sword  seen  in  the  streets  of  Bath  would  raise  as  great  an 
alarm  as  a  mad  dog.  —  How  provoking  this  is  in  Faulkland  !  —  never 
punctual !  I  shall  be  obliged  to  go  without  him  at  last.  —  Oh,  the 
devil  !  here  's  Sir  Anthony  !  —  how  shall  I  escape  him  ? 

\_Mtiffles  up  his  face,  and  takes  a  circle  to  go  off. 
Enter  SIR  ANTHONY  ABSOLUTE. 

Sir  Anth.  How  one  may  be  deceived  at  a  little  distance !  only 
that  I  see  he  don't  know  me,  I  could  have  sworn  that  was  Jack !  — 
Hey  !  Gad's  life  !  it  is.  —  Why,  Jack,  what  are  you  afraid  of  ?  hey  !  — 
sure  I  'm  right.  — Why  Jack,  —  Jack  Absolute  !  [Goes  up  to  him. 

Abs.  Really,  sir,  you  have  the  advantage  of  me:  —  I  don't 
remember  ever  to  have  had  the  honor  —  my  name  is  Saunderson, 
at  your  service. 

Sir  Anth.  Sir,  I  beg  your  pardon  —  I  took  you  —  hey?  —  why, 
zounds !  it  is  —  Stay  —  {Looks  up  to  his  face.']  So,  so  —  your  humble 
servant,  Mr.  Saunderson!  —  Why  you  scoundrel,  what  tricks  are  you 
after  now  ? 

Abs.  Oh,  a  joke,  sir,  a  joke  !  —  I  came  here  on  purpose  to  look  for 
you,  sir. 

Sir  Anth.  You  did!  well,  I  am  glad  you  were  so  lucky: — but 
what  are  you  muffled  up  so  for  ?  —  what 's  this  for  ? —  hey  ! 

Abs.  Tis  cool  sir;  isn't  it?  —  rather  chilly  somehow  —  but  I 
shall  be  late  —  I  have  a  particular  engagement. 

Sir  Anth.  Stay! — Why,  I  thought  you  were  looking  for  me? 
—  Pray,  Jack,  where  is  't  you  are  going  ? 

Abs.    Going,  sir ! 

Sir  Anth.    Ay,  —  where  are  you  going  ? 


1/2  THE  RIVALS. 

Abs.    Where  am  I  going  ? 

Sir  Anth.    You  unmannerly  puppy  ! 

Abs.    I  was  going,  sir,  to  —  to  —  to  —  to    Lydia  —  sir,  to    Lydia 

—  to   make   matters    up   if   I    could ;  —  and  I  was  looking  for  you, 
sir,  to  —  to  — 

Sir  Anth.    To  go  with  you,  I  suppose.  —  Well,  come  along. 

Abs.  Oh!  Zounds!  no,  sir,  not  for  the  world!  —  I  wished  to 
meet  with  you,  sir, — to  —  to  —  to — You  find  it  cool,  I'm  sure, 
sir  —  you'd  better  not  stay  out. 

Sir  Anth.  Cool!  —  not  at  all. —  Well,  Jack  —  and  what  will  you 
say  to  Lydia  ? 

Abs.    Oh,  sir,  beg  her  pardon,  humor  her  —  promise  and  vow: 
but  I  detain  you,  sir  —  consider  the  cold  air  on  your  gout. 

Sir  Anth.  Oh,  not  at  all !  —  not  at  all !  I  'm  in  no  hurry.  — 
Ah !  Jack,  you  youngsters,  when  once  you  are  wounded  here  \Put- 
ting  his  hand  to  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE'S  breast.}  Hey !  what  the  deuce 
have  you  got  here  ? 

Abs.     Nothing,  sir  —  nothing. 

Sir  Anth.   What 's  this  ?  —  here 's  something  damned  hard. 

Abs.    Oh,  trinkets,  sir!  trinkets! — a  bauble  for  Lydia! 

Sir  Anth.  Nay,  let  me  see  your  taste.  —  [Pulls  his  coat  open,  the 
sword  falls :]  Trinkets!  —  a  bauble  for  Lydia!  —  Zounds!  sirrah, 
you  are  not  going  to  cut  her  throat,  are  you  ? 

Abs.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  —  I  thought  it  would  divert  you,  sir,  though 
I  did  n't  mean  to  tell  you  till  afterwards. 

Sir  Anth.  You  did  n't  ? — Yes,  this  is  a  very  diverting  trinket,  truly ! 

Abs.  Sir,  I  '11  explain  to  you. —  You  know,  sir,  Lydia  is  roman- 
tic, devilish  romantic,  and  very  absurd  of  course :  now,  sir,  I  intend, 
if  she  refuses  to  forgive  me,  to  unsheath  this  sword,  and  swear 

—  I  '11  fall  upon  its  point,  and  expire  at  her  feet ! 


A   COMEDY.  173 

Sir  A  nth.  Fall  upon  a  fiddlestick's  end! — why,  I  suppose  it  is 
the  very  thing  that  would  please  her.  —  Get  along,  you  fool ! 

Abs.  Well,  sir,  you  shall  hear  of  my  success  —  you  shall  hear. 
—  O  Lydia  ! — forgive  me,  or  tins  pointed  steel — says*  I. 

Sir  Ant/i.  O,  booby  !  stab  away  and  welcome  —  says  she. —  Get 
along  and  damn  your  trinkets  !  l  \Exit  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE. 

Enter  DAVID,  running. 

Dav.  Stop  him  !  stop  him  !  Murder  !  Thief !  Fire  !  —  Stop 
fire!  Stop  fire!  —  O  Sir  Anthony  —  call!  call!  bid  'm  stop!  Mur- 
der !  fire ! 

SirAnth.    Fire!    Murder ! —  Where? 

Dav.  Oons !  he  's  out  of  sight !  and  I  'm  out  of  breath  !  for  my 
part !  O  Sir  Anthony,  why  did  n't  you  stop  him  ?  why  did  n't  you 
stop  him  ? 

Sir  Anth.  Zounds  !  the  fellow  's  mad  !  —  Stop  whom  ?  stop 
Jack  ? 

Dav.    Ay,  the  captain,  sir! — there's  murder  and  slaughter 

Sir  Anth.    Murder ! 

Dav.  Ay,  please  you,  Sir  Anthony,  there's  all  kinds  of  mur- 
der, all  sorts  of  slaughter  to  be  seen  in  the  fields  :  there's  fighting 
going  on,  sir  —  bloody  sword-and-gun  fighting! 

Sir  Anth.    Who  are  going  to  fight,  dunce  ? 

Dav.  Everybody  that  I  know  of,  Sir  Anthony :  —  everybody  is 
going  to  fight,  my  poor  master,  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger,  your  son, 
the  captain 

SirAnth.  Oh,  the  dog!  —  I  see  his  tricks. — Do  you  know 
the  place? 

Dav.    King's-Mead-Ficlds. 

Sir  Anth.    You  know  the  way  ? 

Dav.    Not  an  inch  ;  but  I  '11  call  the  mayor  —  aldermen  —  consta- 


174  THE  RIVALS. 

bles  —  churchwardens — and    beadles — we    can't    be   too    many   to 
part  them. 

Sir  Anth.  Come  along  —  give  me  your  shoulder!  we'll  get 
assistance  as  we  go  —  the  lying  villain  —  Well,  I  shall  be  in  such 
a  frenzy!  —  So  —  this  was  the  history  of  his  trinkets!  I'll  bauble 
him !  \Exeunt. 


SCENE   III.  —  Kings-Mead-Fields. 
Enter  Sir  Lucius  O'TRIGGER  and  ACRES,  with  pistols. 

Acres.  By  my  valor !  then,  Sir  Lucius,  forty  yards  is  a  good 
distance.  Odds  levels  and  aims!  —  I  say  it  is  a  good  distance. 

Sir  Lite.  Is  it  for  muskets  or  small  field-pieces  ?  Upon  my  con- 
science, Mr.  Acres,  you  must  leave  those  things  to  me.  —  Stay  now 
—  I  '11  show  you.  —  [Measures  paces  along  the  stage.]  There  now, 
that  is  a  very  pretty  distance — a  pretty  gentleman's  distance. 

Acres.  Zounds  !  we  might  as  well  fight  in  a  sentry-box !  I  tell 
you,  Sir  Lucius,  the  farther  he  is  off,  the  cooler  I  shall  take  my  aim. 

Sir  Luc.  Faith  !  then  I  suppose  you  would  aim  at  him  best  of  all 
if  he  was  out  of  sight ! 

Acres.  No,  Sir  Lucius ;  but  I  should  think  forty  or  eight-and- 
thirty  yards 

Sir  Lnc.  Pho !  pho  !  nonsense  !  three  or  four  feet  between  the 
mouths  of  your-  pistols  is  as  good  as  a  mile. 

Acres.  Odds  bullets,  no !  —  by  my  valor !  there  is  no  merit  in 
killing  him  so  near :  do,  my  dear  Sir  Lucius,  let  me  bring  him  down 
at  a  long  shot : —  a  long  shot,  Sir  Lucius,  if  you  love  me  ! 

Sir  Luc.  Well,  the  gentleman's  friend  and  I  must  settle  that.  — 
But  tell  me  now,  Mr.  Acres,  in  case  of  an  accident,  is  there  any  little 
will  or  commission  I  could  execute  for  you  ? 


A    COMEDY.  175 

Acres.  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Sir  Lucius  —  but  I  don't  under- 
stand   

Sir  Luc.  Why,  you  may  think  there  's  no  being  shot  at  without  a 
little  risk  —  and  if  an  unlucky  bullet  should  carry  a  quietus  with  it  — 
I  say  it  will  be  no  time  then  to  be  bothering  you  about  family 
matters. 

Acres.    A  quietus ! 

Sir  Luc.  For  instance,  now  —  if  that  should  be  the  case  —  would 
you  choose  to  be  pickled  and  sent  .home  ?  —  or  would  it  be  the  same 
to  you  to  lie  here  in  the  Abbey  ?  —  I  'm  told  there  is  very  snug  lying 
in  the  Abbey. 

Acres.  Pickled  !  —  Snug  lying  in  the  Abbey  !  —  Odds  tremors  ! 
Sir  Lucius,  don't  talk  so ! 

Sir  Luc.  I  suppose,  Mr.  Acres,  you  never  were  engaged  in  an 
affair  of  this  kind  before  ? 

Acres.    No,  Sir  Lucius,  never  before. 

Sir  Luc.  Ah  !  that 's  a  pity  —  there 's  nothing  like  being  used  to  a 
thing.  —  Pray  now,  how  would  you  receive  the  gentleman's  shot  ? 

Acres.  Odds  files!  —  I've  practised  that  —  there,  Sir  Lucius — • 
there.  —  [Puts  himself  in  an  attitude^}  A  side-front,  hey  ?  Odd ! 
I  '11  make  myself  small  enough  :  I  '11  stand  edgeways.  ' 

Sir  Luc.  Now  —  you're  quite  out  —  for  if  you  stand  so  when  I 
take  my  aim {Levelling  at  him. 

Acres.    Zounds  !  Sir  Lucius  —  are  you  sure  it  is  not  cocked  ? 

Sir  Luc.    Never  fear. 

Acres.  But  —  but — you  don't  know  —  it  may  go  off  of  its  own 
head! 

Sir  Luc.  Pho  !  be  easy.  —  Well,  now  if  I  hit  you  in  the  body  my 
bullet  has  a  double  chance  —  for  if  it  misses  a  vital  part  of  your  right 
side  —  't  will  be  very  hard  if  it  don't  succeed  on  the  left ! 


176  THE  RIVALS. 

Acres.    A  vital  part ! 

Sir  Luc.  But,  there  —  fix  yourself  so  —  [placing  liim~\ — let  him 
see  the  broadside  of  your  full  front  —  there  —  now  a  ball  or  two  may 
pass  clean  through  your  body,  and  never  do  any  harm  at  all. 

Acres.    Clean  through  me  !  —  a  ball  or  two  clean  through  me  ! 

Sir  Luc.  Ay  —  may  they  —  and  it  is  much  the  genteelest  atti- 
tude into  the  bargain. 

Acres.  Look'ee  !  Sir  Lucius  —  I'd  just  as  lieve  be  shot  in  an 
awkward  posture  as  a  genteel  one  —  so,  by  my  valor !  I  will  stand 
edgeways. 

•     Sir  Luc.    [Looking  at  his  watch.]     Sure  they  don't  mean  to  disap- 
point us  —  Hah!  —  no,  faith  —  I  think  I  see  them  coming. 

Acres.    Hey  !  —  what !  —  coming  ! 

Sir  Luc.    Ay.  —  Who  are  those  yonder  getting  over  the  stile  ? 

Acres.  There  are  two  of  them  indeed  !  —  well  —  let  them  come  — 
hey,  Sir  Lucius  !  —  we  —  we  —  we  —  we  —  won't  run. 

Sir  Luc.   Run ! 

Acres.    No  —  I  say  —  we  wont  run,  by  my  valor ! 

Sir  Luc.    What  the  devil 's  the  matter  with  you  ? 

Acres.  Nothing — nothing  —  my  dear  friend  —  my  dear  Sir  Lucius 
—  but  I  —  I  —  I  don't  feel  quite  so  bold,  somehow,  as  I  did. 

Sir  Luc.    O  fie !  —  consider  your  honor. 

Acres.  Ay  —  true  —  my  honor.  Do,  Sir  Lucius,  edge  in  a  word 
or  two  every  now  and  then  about  my  honor. 

Sir  Luc.   Well,  here  they  're  coming.  {Looking. 

Acres.  Sir  Lucius  —  if  I  wa'n't  with  you,  I  should  almost  think 
I  was  afraid.  —  If  my  valor  should  leave  me!  —  Valor  will  come 
and  go. 

Sir  Luc.   Then  pray  keep  it  fast,  while  you  have  it. 

Acres.    Sir  Lucius  —  I  doubt  it  is  going  —  yes  —  my  valor  is  cer- 


A    COMEDY.  177 

tainly  going  !  —  it  is  sneaking  off !  —  I  feel  it  oozing  out  as  it  were, 
at  the  palms  of  my  hands  ! 

Sir  Luc.    Your  honor  —  your  honor.  — Here  they  are. 

Acres.  O  mercy  !  —  now  —  that  I  was  safe  at  Clod-Hall !  or  could 
be  shot  before  I  was  aware ! 

Enter  FAULKLAND  and  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE. 

Sir  Lite.  Gentlemen,  your  most  obedient.  —  Hah  !  —  what,  Cap- 
tain Absolute!  —  So,  I  suppose,  sir,  you  are  come  here,  just  like 
myself — to  do  a  kind  office,  first  for  your  friend  —  then  to  proceed 
to  business  on  your  own  account. 

Acres.    What,  Jack  !  —  my  dear  Jack  !  —  my  dear  friend  ! 

Abs.    Hark'ee,  Bob,  Beverley  's  at  hand. 

Sir  Luc.  Well,  Mr.  Acres,  —  I  don't  blame  your  saluting  the  gen- 
tleman civilly.  —  [To  FAULKLAND.]  So,  Mr.  Beverley,  if  you  '11  choose 
your  weapons,  the  captain  and  I  will  measure  the  ground. 

Faulk.    My  weapons,  sir. 

Acres.  Odds  life !  Sir  Lucius,  I  'm  not  going  to  fight  Mr.  Faulk- 
land ;  these  are  my  particular  friends. 

Sir  Luc.    What,  sir,  did  you  not  come  here  to  fight  Mr.  Acres? 

Faulk.    Not  I,  upon  my  word,  sir. 

Sir  Luc.  Well,  now,  that 's  mighty  provoking  !  But  I  hope,  Mr. 
Faulkland,  as  there  are  three  of  us  come  on  purpose  for  the  game  — 
you  won't  be  so  cantankerous  as  to  spoil  the  party  by  sitting  out. 

Abs.    O  pray,  Faulkland,  fight  to  oblige  Sir  Lucius. 

Faulk.    Nay,  if  Mr.  Acres  is  so  bent  on  the  matter 

Acres.  No,  no,  Mr.  Faulkland  ;  —  I  '11  bear  my  disappointment 
like  a  Christian.  —  Look'ee,  Sir  Lucius,  there 's  no  occasion  at  all 
for  me  to  fight ;  and  if  it  is  the  same  to  you,  I  'd  as  lieve  let  it 
alone. 

Sir  Luc.    Observe  me,  Mr.  Acres  —  I  must  not  be  trifled  with. 


178  THE  RIVALS. 

You  have  —  certainly  challenged  somebody  —  and  you  came  here  to 
fight  him.  —  Now,  if  that  gentleman  is  willing  to  represent  him  — 
I  can't  see,  for  my  soul,  why  it  is  n't  just  the  same  thing. 

Acres.  Why  no  —  Sir  Lucius  —  I  tell  you  't  is  one  Beverley  I  've 
challenged  —  a  fellow,  you  see,  that  dare  not  show  his  face  !  —  If  he 
were  here,  I  'd  make  him  give  up  his  pretensions  directly  ! 

Abs.  Hold,  Bob  —  let  me  set  you  right  —  there  is  no  such  man  as 
Beverley  in  the  case.  —  The  person  who  assumed  that  name  is  before 
you ;  and  as  his  pretensions  are  the  same  in  both  characters,  he  is 
ready  to  support  them  in  whatever  way  you  please. 

Sir  Luc.  Well,  this  is  lucky.  —  Now  you  have  an  opportunity 

Acres.  What,  quarrel  with  my  dear  friend  Jack  Absolute?  not  if 
he  were  fifty  Beverleys  !  Zounds !  Sir  Lucius,  you  would  not  have, 
me  so  unnatural. 

Sir  Luc.  Upon  my  conscience,  Mr.  Acres,  your  valor  has  oozed 
away  with  a  vengeance. 

Acres.  Not  in  the  least !  Odds  backs  and  abettors  !  I  '11  be  your 
second  with  all  my  heart  —  and  if  you  should  get  a  quietus  you  may 
command  me  entirely.  I  '11  get  you  snug  lying  in  the  Abbey  here  ; 
or  pickle  you,  and  send  you  over  to  Blunderbuss-Hall,  or  anything  of 
the  kind,  with  the  greatest  pleasure. 

Sir  Luc.    Pho  !  pho  !  you  are  little  better  than  a  coward. 

Acres.  Mind,  gentlemen,  he  calls  me  a  coward ;  coward  was  the 
word,  by  my  valor. 

Sir  Luc.    Well,  sir  ? 

Acres.  Look  'ee,  Sir  Lucius,  't  is  n't  that  I  mind  the  word  coward 
—  coward  may  be  said  in  joke  —  But  if  you  had  called  me  a  poltroon, 
odds  daggers  and  balls 

Sir  Luc.    Well,  sir  ? 

Acres. 1  should  have  thought  you  a  very  ill-bred  man. 


A    COMEDY.  1/9 

Sir  Luc.    Pho !  you  are  beneath  my  notice. 

Abs.  Nay,  Sir  Lucius,  you  can't  have  a  better  second  than  my 
friend  Acres — He  is  a  most  determined  dog — called  in  the  country 
Fighting  Bob.  —  He  generally  kills  a  man  a  week  —  don't  you,  Bob  ? 

Acres.    Ay  —  at  home  ! 

Sir  Luc.  Well,  then,  captain,  'tis  we  must  begin — so  come  out, 
my  little  counsellor  —  {Draws  his  sword] — and  ask  the  gentleman 
whether  he  will  resign  the  lady  without  forcing  you  to  proceed 
against  him  ? 

Abs.  Come  on  then,  sir  —  [Draws'] ;  since  you  won't  let  it  be  an 
amicable  suit,  here  's  my  reply. 

Enter  SIR  ANTHONY  ABSOLUTE,  DAVID,  MRS.  MALAPROP,  LYDJA, 
and  JULIA. 

Dav.  Knock  'em  all  down,  sweet  Sir  Anthony ;  knock  down 
my  master  in  particular;  and  bind  his  hands  over  to  their  good 
behavior ! 

Sir  Anth.  Put  up,  Jack,  put  up,  or  I  shall  be  in  a  frenzy — how 
came  you  in  a  duel,  sir  ? 

Abs.  Faith,  sir,  that  gentleman  can  tell  you  better  than  I  ;  't  was 
he  called  on  me,  and  you  know,  sir,  I  serve  his  majesty. 

Sir  Anth.  Here  's  a  pretty  fellow  ;  I  catch  him  going  to  cut  a 
man's  throat,  and  he  tells  me  he  serves  his  majesty !  —  Zounds  ! 
sirrah,  then  how  durst  you  draw  the  king's  sword  against  one  of  his 
subjects. 

Abs.  Sir,  I  tell  you !  that  gentleman  called  me  out,  without 
explaining  his  reasons. 

Sir  Anth.  Gad !  sir,  how  came  you  to  call  my  son  out,  without 
explaining  your  reasons  ? 

Sir  Lnc.  Your  son,  sir,  insulted  me  in  a  manner  which  my  honor 
could  not  brook. 


l8o  THE  RIVALS. 

Sir  AntJi.  Zounds  !  Jack,  how  durst  you  insult  the  gentleman  in 
a  manner  which  his  honor  could  not  brook? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Come,  come,  let's  have  no  honor  before  ladies  — 
Captain  Absolute,  come  here  —  How  could  you  intimidate  us  so?  — 
Here 's  Lydia  has  been  terrified  to  death  for  you. 

Abs.    For  fear  I  should  be  killed,  or  escape,  ma'am  ? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Nay,  no  delusions  to  the  past  —  Lydia  is  convinced; 
speak,  child. 

Sir  Luc.  With  your  leave,  ma'am,  I  must  put  in  a  word  here  — 
I  believe  I  could  interpret  the  young  lady's  silence.  —  Now  mark 

Lyd.    What  is  it  you  mean,  sir  ? 

Sir  Luc.  Come,  come,  Delia,  \ve  must  be  serious  now  —  this  is 
no  time  for  trifling. 

Lyd.  'T  is  true,  sir  ;  and  your  reproof  bids  me  offer  this  gentle- 
man my  hand,  and  solicit  the  return  of  his  affections. 

Abs.  O  !  my  little  angel,  say  you  so  ?  —  Sir  Lucius  —  I  perceive 
there  must  be  some  mistake  here,  with  regard  to  the  affront  which 
you  affirm  I  have  given  you.  I  can  only  say  that  it  could  not  have 
been  intentional.  And  as  you  must  be  convinced  that  I  should  not 
fear  to  support  a  real  injury — you  shall  now  see  that  I  am  not 
ashamed  to  atone  for  an  inadvertency — I  ask  your  pardon.  —  But 
for  this  lady,  while  honored  with  her  approbation,  I  will  support  my 
claim  against  any  man  whatever. 

Sir  Anth.    Well  said,  Jack,  and  I  '11  stand  by  you,  my  boy. 

Acres.  Mind,  I  give  up  all  my  claim  —  I  make  no  pretensions  to 
anything  in  the  world  —  and  if  I  can't  get  a  wife  without  fighting  for 
her,  by  my  valor !  I  '11  live  a  bachelor. 

Sir  Luc.  Captain,  give  me  your  hand  —  an  affront  handsomely 
acknowledged  becomes  an  obligation  ;  —  and  as  for  the  lady  —  if  she 
chooses  to  deny  her  own  handwriting,  here \Takcs  out  letters. 


A    COMEDY.  181 

Mrs.  Mai.  O,  he  will  dissolve  my  mystery !  —  Sir  Lucius,  per- 
haps there 's  some  mistake,  —  perhaps  I  can  illuminate 

Sir  Luc.  Pray,  old  gentlewoman,  don't  interfere  where  you  have 
no  business.  —  Miss  Languish,  are  you  my  Delia,  or  not  ? 

Lyd.    Indeed,  Sir  Lucius,  I  am  not. 

[  Walks  aside  with  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger  —  ungrateful  as  you  are — I 
own  the  soft  impeachment  —  pardon  my  blushes,  I  am  Delia. 

Sir  Lnc.    You  Delia  —  pho  !  pho  !  be  easy. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Why,  thou  barbarous  Vandyke — those  letters  are 
mine  —  When  you  are  more  sensible  of  my  benignity  —  perhaps  I 
may  be  brought  to  encourage  your  addresses. 

Sir  Lnc.  Mrs.  Malaprop,  I  am  extremely  sensible  of  your  conde- 
scension ;  and  whether  you  or  Lucy  have  put  this  trick  on  me,  I  am 
equally  beholden  to  you.  —  And  to  show  you  I  am  not  ungrateful, 
Captain  Absolute,  since  you  have  taken  that  lady  from  me,  I  '11  give 
you  my  Delia  into  the  bargain. 

Abs.  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Sir  Lucius  ;  but  here 's  my 
friend,  Fighting  Bob,  unprovided  for. 

Sir  Luc.  Hah!  little  Valor  —  here,  will  you  make  your  for- 
tune ? 

Acres.  Odds  wrinkles  !  No.  —  But  give  me  your  hand,  Sir  Lucius, 
forget  and  forgive  ;  but  if  ever  I  give  you  a  chance  of  pickling  me 
again,  say  Bob  Acres  is  a  dunce,  that 's  all. 

Sir  A  nth.  Come,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  don't  be  cast  down  —  you  are  in 
your  bloom  yet. 

Mrs.  Mai.    O  Sir  Anthony  —  men  are  all  barbarians. 

[All  retire  but  JULIA  and  FAULKLAND. 

Jul.  [Aside.]  He  seems  dejected  and  unhappy  —  not  sullen ;  there 
was  some  foundation,  however,  for  the  tale  he  told  me  —  O  woman ! 


1 82  THE  RIVALS. 

how  true  should  be  your  judgment,  when  your  resolution  is  so 
weak ! 

Faulk.  Julia !  —  how  can  I  sue  for  what  I  so  little  deserve  ? 
I  dare  not  presume  —  yet  Hope  is  the  child  of  Penitence. 

Jul.  Oh !  Faulkland,  you  have  not  been  more  faulty  in  your 
unkind  treatment  of  me,  than  I  am  now  in  wanting  inclination  to 
resent  it.  As  my  heart  honestly  bids  me  place  my  weakness  to  the 
account  of  love,  I  should  be  ungenerous  not  to  admit  the  same  plea 
for  yours. 

Faulk.   Now  I  shall  be  blest  indeed  ! 

Sir Anth.  [Coming forward.}  What's  going  on  here?  —  So  you 
have  been  quarrelling  too,  I  warrant !  —  Come,  Julia,  !  never  inter- 
fered before ;  but  let  me  have  a  hand  in  the  matter  at  last. —  All  the 
fault  I  have  ever  seen  in  my  friend  Faulkland  seemed  to  proceed 
from  what  he  calls  the  delicacy  and  warmth  of  his  affection  for  you. 
—  There,  marry  him  directly,  Julia ;  you  '11  find  he  '11  mend  surpris- 
ingly !  \TJie  rest  come  fonvard. 

Sir  Luc.  Come,  now,  I  hope  there  is  no  dissatisfied  person,  but 
what  is  content ;  for  as  I  have  been  disappointed  myself,  it  will  be 
very  hard  if  I  have  not  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  other  people  suc- 
ceed better 

Acres.  You  are  right,  Sir  Lucius. —  So  Jack,  I  wish  you  joy — Mr. 
Faulkland  the  same. —  Ladies, —  come  now,  to  show  you  I  'm  neither 
vexed  nor  angry,  odds  tabors  and  pipes  !  I  '11  order  the  fiddles  in  half 
an  hour  to  the  New  Rooms — and  I  insist  on  your  all  meeting  me 
there. 

Sir  Anth.  'Gad !  sir,  I  like  your  spirit  ;  and  at  night  we  single 
lads  will  drink  a  health  to  the  young  couples,  and  a  husband  to  Mrs. 
Malaprop. 

Faulk.    Our  partners  are  stolen  from  us,  Jack  —  I  hope  to  be  con- 


A    COMEDY.  183 

gratulated  by  each  other — yours  for  having  checked  in  time  the 
errors  of  an  ill-directed  imagination,  which  might  have  betrayed  an 
innocent  heart ;  and  mine,  for  having,  by  her  gentleness  and  candor, 
reformed  the  unhappy  temper  of  one  who  by  it  made  wretched  whom 
he  loved  most,  and  tortured  the  heart  he  ought  to  have  adored. 

Abs.  Well,  Jack,  we  have  both  tasted  the  bitters,  as  well  as  the 
sweets  of  love ;  with  this  difference  only,  that  you  always  prepared  the 
bitter  cup  for  yourself,  while  / 

Lyd.  Was  always  obliged  to  me  for  it,  hey!  Mr.  Modesty? 

But  come,  no  more  of  that  —  our  happiness  is  now  as  unalloyed  as 
general. 

Jul.  Then  let  us  study  to  preserve  it  so :  and  while  Hope  pictures 
to  us  a  flattering  scene  of  future  bliss,  let  us  deny  its  pencil  those 
colors  which  are  too  bright  to  be  lasting. —  When  hearts  deserving 
happiness  would  unite  their  fortunes,  Virtue  would  crown  them  with 
an  unfading  garland  of  modest  hurtless  flowers  ;  but  ill-judging  Pas- 
sion will  force  the  gaudier  rose  into  the  wreath,  whose  thorn  offends 
them  when  its  leaves  are  dropped  !  [Exeunt  omnes. 


EPILOGUE. 

BY  THE  AUTHOR. 
SPOKEN    BY    MRS.    BULKLEY. 


LADIES,  for  you  —  I  heard  our  poet  say  — 

He  'd  try  to  coax  some  moral  from  his  play  : 

"  One  moral's  plain,"  cried  I,  "  without  more  fuss  • 

Man's  social  happiness  all  rests  on  us : 

Through  all  the  drama — whether  damn'd  or  not — 

Love  gilds  the  scene,  and  women  guide  the  plot. 

From  every  rank  obedience  is  our  due — • 

D  'ye  doubt? —  The  world's  great  stage  shall  prove  it  true.' 

The  cit,  well  skill'd  to  shun  domestic  strife, 
Will  sup  abroad  ;  but  first  he  '11  ask  his  wife  : 
John  Trot,  his  friend,  for  once  will  do  the  same, 
But  then  —  he  '11  just  step  home  to  tell  his  dame. 

The  surly  Squire  at  noon  resolves  to  rule, 
And  half  the  day  —  Zounds!  madam  is  a  fool! 
'Convinced  at  night,  the  vanquish'd  victor  says, 
Ah,  Kate!  you  women  have  such  coaxing  ways  ! 

The  jolly  Toper  chides  each  tardy  blade, 
Till  reeling  Bacchus  calls  on  Love  for  aid  : 
Then  with  each  toast  he  sees  fair  bumpers  swim, 
And  kisses  Chloe  on  the  sparkling  brim  ! 
184 


EPILOGUE.  185 

Nay,  I  have  heard  that  Statesmen  —  great  and  wise  — 
Will  sometimes  counsel  with  a  lady's  eyes  ! 
The  servile  suitors  watch  her  various  face, 
She  smiles  preferment,  or  she  frowns  disgrace, 
Curtsies  a  pension  here  —  there  nods  a  place. 

Nor  with  less  awe,  in  scenes  of  humbler  life, 
Is  viewd  the  mistress,  or  is  heard  the  wife. 
The  poorest  peasant  of  the  poorest  soil, 
The  child  of  poverty,  and  heir  to  toil, 
Early  from  radiant  Love's  impartial  light 
Steals  one  small  spark  to  cheer  this  world  of  night : 
Dear  spark  !  that  oft  through  winter's  chilling  woes 
Is  all  the  warmth  his  little  cottage  knows ! 

The  wandering  Tar,  who  not  for  years  has  press'd, 
The  widow'd  partner  of  his  day  of  rest, 
On  the  cold  deck,  far  from  her  arms  removed, 
Still  hums  the  ditty  which  his  Susan  loved ; 
And  while  around  the  cadence  rude  is  blown, 
The  boatswain  whistles  in  a  softer  tone. 

The  Soldier,  fairly  proud  of  wounds  and  toil, 
Pants  for  the  ttiumph  "of  his  Nancy's  smile ; 
But  ere  the  battle  should  he  list'  her  cries, 
The  lover  trembles  —  and  the  hero  dies  ! 
That  heart,  by  war  and  honor  steel'd  to  fear, 
Droops  on  a  sigh,  and  sickens  at  a  tear ! 

But  ye  more  cautious,  ye  nice-judging  few, 
Who  give  to  Beauty  only  Beauty's  due, 
Though  friends  to  Love — ye  view  with  deep  regret 
Our  conquests  marr'd,  our  triumphs  incomplete, 


1 86  THE  RIVALS. 

Till  polish'd  Wit  more  lasting  charms  disclose, 
And  Judgment  fix  the  darts  which  Beauty  throws ! 

In  female  breasts  did  sense  and  merit  rule, 
The  lover's  mind  would  ask  no  other  school ; 
Shamed  into  sense,  the  scholars  of  our  eyes, 
Our  beaux  from  gallantry  would  soon  be  wise  ; 
Would  gladly  light,  their  homage  to  improve, 
The  lamp  of  Knowledge  at  the  torch  of  Love ! 


THE   SCHOOL   FOR  SCANDAL. 


THE    SCHOOL    FOR   SCANDAL. 


YEARLY  in  the  spring  of  1776  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan  suc- 
^-^  ceecled  David  Garrick  as  the  manager  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre. 
Within  a  little  more  than  a  year  Sheridan  had  brought  out  the  'Rivals,' 
a  comedy  in  five  acts,  '  St.  Patrick's  Day,'  a  farce  in  one  act,  and  the 
'  Duenna,'  an  opera  in  three  acts.  Great  expectations  were  excited  by 
the  announcement  of  his  first  play  at  his  own  theatre.  The  produc- 
tion of  the  'Trip  to  Scarborough'  in  February,  1777,  was  only  a 
temporary  disappointment,  for  it  was  soon  noised  abroad  that  a  more 
important  comedy  in  five  acts  was  in  preparation.  At  last,  on  May 
8,  1777,  the  '  School  for  Scandal '  was  acted  for  the  first  time  on  any 
stage. 

Garrick  had  read  the  play,  and  he  thought  even  more  highly  of  it 
than  he  had  thought  of  Mrs.  Sheridan's  'Discovery'  many  years 
before.  He  aided  the  author  with  much  practical  advice,  and  volun- 
teered to  write  the  prologue,  a  form  of  composition  for  which  his 
lively  fancy  and  neat  versification  were  particularly  suited.  The 
great  hopes  excited  for  the  comedy  barely  escaped  disappointment  — 
for  on  the  night  before  the  first  performance,  as  Sheridan  told  the 
House  of  Commons  many  years  later,  he  was  informed  that  it  could 
not  be  performed,  as  a  license  was  refused.  It  happened  at  this  time 
there  was  the  famous  city  contest  for  the  office  of  chamberlain, 

189 


190  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

between  Wilkes  and  Hopkins.  The  latter  had  been  charged  with 
some  practices  similar  to  those  of  Moses,  the  Jew,  in  lending  money 
to  young  men  under  age,  and  it  was  supposed  that  the  character  of 
the  play  was  levelled  at  him,  in  order  to  injure  him  in  his  contest,  in 
which  he  was  supported  by  the  ministerial  interest.  In  the  warmth 
of  a  contested  election,  the  piece  was  represented  as  a  factious  and 
seditious  opposition  to  a  court  candidate.  He,  however,  went  to  Lord 
Hertford,  then  lord  chamberlain,  who  laughed  at  the  affair  and  gave 
the  license.  Sheridan  told  Lord  Byron  that  the  next  night,  after 
the  grand  success  of  the  '  School  for  Scandal '  he  was  knocked  down 
and  taken  to  the  watch-house,  for  making  a  row  in  the  street,  and 
being  found  intoxicated  by  the  watchman. 

*  Perhaps  this  was  only  a  bit  of  Hibernian  hyperbole,  though  a 
man's  head  might  well  reel  under  a  triumph  so  overwhelming.  There 
seems  to  have  been  hardly  a  dissenting  voice.  Merry  —  Della- 
Cruscan  Merry,  the  future  husband  of  Miss  Brunton,  who,  under  his 
name,  was  afterward  the  leading  actress  of  America  —  did,  it  is  true, 
object  to  the  great  scandal-scene.  "  Why  do  not  the  dramatis 
persoiice"  he  said,  "stop  talking,  and  let  the  play  go  on?"  The 
comedy  was  a  success  from  the  rising  of  the  curtain,  but  it  was  the 
falling  of  the  screen  —  although  Garrick  thought  the  actors  stood  a 
little  too  long  without  moving  —  which  raised  the  audience  to  the 
highest  degree  of  enthusiasm.  Reynolds,  the  dramatist,  relates  that 
as  he  was  passing  about  nine  on  this  evening  through  the  pit-passage, 
"  I  heard  such  a  tremendous  noise  over  my  head  that,  fearing  the 
theatre  was  proceeding  to  fall  about  it,  I  ran  for  my  life  ;  but  found 
the  next  morning  that  the  noise  did  not  arise  from  the  falling  of  the 
house,  but  from  the  falling  of  the  screen  in  the  fourth  act,  so  violent 
and  tumultuous  were  the  applause  and  laughter." 

The  singular  success  of  the  '  School  for  Scandal '  seems  to  have 


INTRODUCTION.  IQI 

been  greatly  aided  by  the  unusual  excellence  of  the  acting.  Charles 
Lamb  says,  "  No  piece  was  ever  so  completely  cast  in  all  its  parts  as 
this  manager 's  comedy."  The  characters  fitted  the  actors  as  though 
they  had  been  measured  for  them  ;  as,  indeed,  they  had.  Sheridan 
chose  his  performers,  and  modified  his  play,  if  needed,  to  suit  their 
peculiarities,  with  the  same  shrewdness  that  he  showed  in  all  such 
matters.  When  reproached  with  not  having  written  a  love-scene  for 
Charles  and  Maria,  he  said  that  it  was  because  neither  Mr.  Smith 
nor  Miss  P.  Hopkins  (who  played  the  parts)  was  an  adept  at  stage 
love-making.  King,  the  original  Lord  Ogleby  in  the  '  Clandestine 
Marriage'  —  a  part  written  by  Garrick  for  himself  —  was  Sir  Peter, 
and  Mrs.  Abington  was  Lady  Teazle.  No  one  was  better  suited  than 
John  Palmer,  from  whom  Sheridan  may  well  have  derived  some  hints 
of  Joseph  Surface ;  Boaclen  relates  a  characteristic  interview  between 
him  and  the  manager,  when  he  returned  to  the  theatre  after  an 
escapade.  "My  dear  Mr.  Sheridan,"  began  the  actor,  with  clasped 
hands  and  penitent  humility,  "  if  you  could  but  know  what  I  feel  at 
this  moment  here  !  "  laying  one  hand  upon  his  heart.  Sheridan,  with 
his  usual  quickness,  stopped  him  at  once  :  "  Why,  Jack,  you  forgot  / 
wrote  it !"  Palmer  declared  that  the  manager's  wit  cost  him  some- 
thing, "  for  I  made  him  add  three  pounds  per  week  to  the  salary  I 
had  before  my  desertion."  The  other  actors  were  hardly  inferior  to 
King  and  Palmer.  Parsons,  afterward  the  original  Sir  Fretful 
Plagiary,  was  Crab  tree  ;  and  Dodd,  who  has  been  called  "  the  Prince 
of  Pink  Heels  and  Soul  of  Empty  Eminence,"  was  Sir  Benjamin 
Backbite.  The  various  characters  fitted  the  actors  who  played  them 
with  the  most  exact  nicety ;  and  the  result  was  a  varied  and  harmo- 
nious performance  of  the  entire  comedy.  The  acting  showed  the 
smoothness,  and  the  symmetry,  and  the  due  subordination  of  the 
parts  to  the  whole,  which  is  the  highest,  and,  alas  !  the  rarest  of 


I92  THE  SCHOOL   FOR  SCANDAL. 

dramatic  excellences.  Walpole  has  noted  that  there  were  more 
parts  better  played  in  the  '  School  for  Scandal '  than  he  almost  ever 
remembered  to  have  seen  in  any  other  play ;  and  Charles  Lamb 
thought  it  "some  compensation  for  growing  old,  to  have  seen  the 
'School  for  Scandal '  in  its  glory." 

Dr.  Watkins,  in  his  unnecessary  biography  of  Sheridan,  saw  fit 
to  insinuate  therein  that  Sheridan  was  not  the  real  author  of  the 
'  School  for  Scandal,'  but  that  it  was  the  composition  of  a  young 
lady,  daughter  of  a  merchant  in  Thames  Street,  who  had  left  it 
with  Sheridan  for  his  judgment  as  a  manager,  "soon  after  which 
the  fair  writer,  who  was  then  in  a  state  of  decline,  went  to  Bristol 
Hot-Wells,  where  she  died." 

Pope  well  knew  the  type  to  which  this  Dr.  Watkins  belonged 
("with  him  most  authors  steal  their  works  or  buy  ;  Garth  did  not 
write  his  own  'Dispensary'");  and  the  story  which  Pope  crippled, 
as  if  by  anticipation,  Moore  readily  brought  to  ground  by  the  publi- 
cation of  the  earlier  and  inchoate  suggestions  from  which  Sheridan 
finally  formed  the  finished  play.  With  the  evidence  of  these  grow- 
ing and  gathering  fragments  before  us,  we  can  trace  the  inception  of 
the  idea,  and  the  slow  accretion  by  which  it  got  rounded  at  last  into 
its  present  complex  symmetry.  Moore  fills  page  after  page  of  his 
Life  of  Sheridan  with  extracts  from  the  notes  and  drafts  of  two  dis- 
tinct plays — one  containing  the  machinery  of  the  scandalous  college, 
to  have  been  called  possibly  the  '  Slanderers,'  and  the  other  setting 
before  us  the  Teazles  and  the  Surfaces.  This  latter  was,  perhaps, 
the  two-act  comedy  which  Sheridan  announced  to  Mr.  Linley  in 
1775,  as  being  in  preparation  for  the  stage.  The  gradual  amalga- 
mation of  these  two  distinct  plots,  the  growth  of  the  happy  thought 
of  using  the  malevolent  tittle-tattle  of  the  first  play  as  a  background 
to  set  off  the  intrigues  of  the  second,  can  be  clearly  traced  in  the 


INTRODUCTION.  1 93 

extracts  given  by  Moore.  In  the  eyes  of  some  small  critics  this 
revelation  of  Sheridan's  laborious  method  of  working,  this  exhibition 
of  the  chips  of  his  workshop  has  had  a  lowering  effect  on  their 
opinion  of  Sheridan's  ability.  It  is,  perhaps,  his  own  fault,  for  he 
affected  laziness  and  sought  the  reputation  of  an  off-hand  wit.  But 
the  '  School  for  Scandal '  is  obviously  not  a  spontaneous  improvisa- 
tion. It  is  not  labored,  for  its  author  had  the  art  to  conceal  art,  but 
its  symmetrical  smoothness  and  perfect  polish  cost  great  labor.  It 
did  not  spring  full  armed  from  the  brain  of  Jove.  Jove  was  a  god,  and 
mere  mortals  must  cudgel  their  poor  brains  long  years  to  bring  forth 
wisdom.  No  masterpiece  was  ever  dashed  off  hurriedly.  The  pow.er 
of  hard  work,  and  the  willingness  to  take  pains,  are  among  the  attri- 
butes of  the  highest  genius.  Balzac  had  them ;  he  spent  the  whole 
of  one  long  winter  night  on  a  single  sentence.  So  had  Sheridan  ;  he 
told  Ridgway,  to  whom  he  had  sold  the  copyright  of  this  very  play, 
and  who  asked  for  the  manuscript  again  and  again  in  vain,  that  he 
had  been  for  nineteen  years  endeavoring  to  satisfy  himself  with  the 
style  of  the  'School  for  Scandal,'  but  had  not  yet  succeeded.  A 
diamond  of  the  first  water,  like  this,  is  worth  careful  cutting  —  and 
even  the  chips  are  of  value.  Those  given  to  the  world  by  Moore  are 
curious  in  themselves,  independent  of  their  use  in  disproving  the 
charge  of  literary  larceny  preferred  by  Dr.  Watkins. 

Since  the  publication  of  these  extracts,  those  who  seek  to  dis- 
credit Sheridan's  originality  have  shifted  their  ground,  and  content 
themselves  with  drawing  attention  to  the  singular  similarity  of 
Joscpli  and  Charles  to  Tan  Jones  and  Blifil.  They  also  remark  upon 
the  likeness  of  the  scandal-scene  to  the  satirical  episode  of  the 
'  Misanthrope '  of  Moliere,  and  on  the  likeness  of  Joseph  Surface  to 
Tartnffc.  M.  Taine,  who  seems  sometimes  to  speak  slightingly  of 
Sheridan,  puts  this  accusation  into  most  effective  shape  :  "  Sheridan 


194  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

took  two  characters  from  Fielding,  Blifil  and  Tom  Jones,  two  plays 
of  Moliere,  '  Le  Misanthrophe '  and  '  Tartuffe,'  and  from  his  puissant 
materials,  condensed  with  admirable  cleverness,  he  has  constructed 
the  most  brilliant  fireworks  imaginable." 

A  glance  at  the  play  itself  will  show  this  to  be  a  most  exaggerated 
statement.  The  use  of  Moliere  and  Fielding  is  far  slighter  than 
alleged,  and  at  most  to  what  does  it  all  amount?  But  little  more 
than  the  outline  and  faint  coloring  of  two  characters,  and  of  a  very 
few  incidents.  While  the  play  could  not  exist  without  them,  they 
are  far  from  the  most  important.  Lady  Teazle  and  Sir  Peter,  the 
screen-scene  and  the  auction-scene  —  these  are  what  made  the  suc- 
cess of  the  '  School  for  Scandal,'  and  not  what  Sheridan  may  have 
derived  from  Fielding  and  Moliere.  Nor  is  this  borrowing  at  all  as 
extensive  as  it  may  seem.  Joseph  is  a  hypocrite  —  so  is  Tartuffe,  so 
is  Blifil;  but  there  are  hypocrites  and  hypocrites,  and  the  resem- 
blance can  scarcely  be  stretched  much  farther.  The  rather  rustic  and 
—  if  the  word  may  be  risked  —  vulgar  Tom  Jones  is  as  unlike  as  may 
be  to  that  light  and  easy  gentleman  Charles.  Yet  it  seems  probable 
that  Sheridan  found  in  Tom  Jones  the  first  idea  of  the  contrasted 
brothers  of  the  'School  for  Scandal.'  Boaden  has  even  seen  the 
embryonic  suggestion  of  the  fall  of  the  screen  in  the  dropping  of  the 
rug  in  Molly  Seagrims  room,  discovering  the  philosopher  Square. 
Now,  Sheridan  had  a  marvellous  power  of  assimilation.  He  extended 
a  ready  welcome  to  all  floating  seeds  of  thought,  and  in  his  fertile 
brain  they  would  speedily  spring  up,  bringing  forth  the  best  they 
could.  But  to  evolve  from  the  petty  discomfiture  of  Square  the 
almost  unequalled  effect  of  the  screen-scene — to  see  in  the  one  the 
germs  of  the  other  —  were  a  task  worthy  even  of  Sheridan's  quick 
eye.  The  indebtedness  to  Moliere  is  even  less  than  to  Fielding. 
We  may  put  on  one  side  Sheridan's  ignorance  of  French  —  for  in 


INTRO  D  UCTION.  1 95 

Colley  Gibber's  '  Non-Juror,'  or  in  Bickerstaff's  '  Hypocrite,'  he  could 
find  Moliere's  Tartuffe ;  and  the  scandal-loving  Celimene  of  the  'Mis- 
anthrope/ he  might  trace  in  Wycherley's  'Plain-Dealer.'  If  Sheri- 
dan borrowed  from  Moliere —  an  indictment  difficult  of  proof — he 
was  only  following  in  the  footsteps  of  his  father,  whose  sole  play, 
'Captain  O'Blunder,'  is  based  on  '  Monsieur  de  Pourceaugnac.'  But 
Sheridan's  indebtedness  to  Moliere  is  barely  visible.  It  is  almost  as 
slight,  indeed,  as  the  borrowing  from  the  '  School  for  Scandal '  of 
which  Madame  de  Girarclin  was  guilty  for  her  fine  comedy,  'Lady 
Tartuffe.'  In  any  case,  Sheridan's  indebtedness  is  less  to  the  'Mis- 
anthrope' than  to  'Tartuffe'  —  and  even  here  there  is  little  resem- 
blance beyond  the  generic  likeness  of  all  hypocrites.  This  resem- 
blance, such  as  it  is,  the  French  adapters  of  the  '  School  for  Scandal ' 
chose  to  emphasize  by  calling  their  version  the  'Tartuffe  des  Mceurs.' 
Although  Sheridan  was  in  general  original  in  incident,  he  unhesi- 
tatingly made  use  of  any  happy  phrases  or  effective  locutions  which 
struck  his  fancy  in  the  course  of  his  readings.  He  willingly  distilled 
the  perfume  from  a  predecessor's  flower ;  and  it  was  with  pleasure 
that  he  cut  and  set  the  gem  which  an  earlier  writer  may  have 
brought  to  light.  Witty  himself,  he  could  boldly  conquer  and  annex 
the  wit  of  others,  sure  to  increase  its  value  by  his  orderly  govern- 
ment. This  can  perhaps  be  justified  on  the  ground  that  the  rich 
can  borrowwith  impunity;  or,  deeming  wit  his  patrimony,  Sheridan 
may  have  felt  that,  taking  it,  he  was  but  come  into  his  own  again ;  as 
Moliere  said,  "  Je  prends  mon  bien  ou  je  le  trouve."  In  the  preface 
to  the  '  Rivals,'  however,  Sheridan  has  chosen  to  meet  the  charge  of 
plagiarism.  "  Faded  ideas,"  he  said,  "  float  in  the  fancy  like  half-for- 
gotten dreams,  and  the  imagination  in  its  fullest  enjoyments  becomes 
suspicious  of  its  offspring,  and  doubts  whether  it  has  created  or 
adopted."  It  is  a  curious  coincidence  thai:  this  very  passage  is 


196  THE  SCHOOL   FOR  SCANDAL. 

quoted  by  Burgoyne  to  explain  his  accidental  adoption,  in  the 
'  Heiress,'  of  an  image  of  Ariosto's  and  Rousseau's,  which  Byron  did 
not  scruple  to  use  again  in  his  monody  on  Sheridan  himself:  — 

"  Sighing  that  Nature  formed  but  one  such  man, 
And  broke  the  die  —  in  moulding  Sheridan." 

In  the  '  School  for  Scandal '  the  construction,  the  ordering  of  the 
scenes,  the  development  of  the  elaborate  plo  ,  is  much  better  than  in 
the  comedies  of  any  of  Sheridan's  contemporaries.  A  play  in  those 
days  need  not  reveal  a  complete  and  self-contained  plot.  Great  laxity 
of  episode  was  not  only  permitted,  but  almost  praised ;  and  that 
Sheridan,  with  a  subject  which  lent  itself  so  readily  to  digression, 
should  have  limited  himself  as  he  did,  shows  his  exact  appreciation 
of  the  source  of  dramatic  effect.  But  it  must  be  confessed  that  the 
construction  of  the  '  School  for  Scandal,'  when  measured  by  our 
modern  standards,  seems  a  little  loose — a  little  diffuse,  perhaps.  It 
shows  the  welding  of  the  two  distinct  plots.  There  can  hardly  be 
seen  in  it  the  ruling  of  a  dominant  idea,  subordinating  all  the  parts 
to  the  effect  of  the  whole.  But,  although  the  two  original  motives 
have  been  united  mechanically,  although  they  have  not  flowed  and  fused 
together  in  the  hot  spurt  of  homogeneous  inspiration,  the  joining  has 
been  so  carefully  concealed, -and  the  whole  structure  has  been  over- 
laid with  so  much  wit,  that  few  people  after  seeing  the  play  would 
care  to  complain.  The  wit  is  ceaseless ;  and  wit  like  Sheridan's 
would  cover  sins  of  construction  far  greater  than  those  of  the  '  School 
for  Scandal.'  It  is  "steeped  in  the  very  brine  of  conceit,  and  sparkles 
like  salt  in  the  fire." 

In  his  conception  of  character  Sheridan  was  a  wit  rather  than  a 
humorist.  He  created  character  by  a  distinctly  intellectual  process  ; 
he  did  not  bring  it  forth  out  of  the  depths,  as  it  were,  of  his  own 


INTRODUCTION.  1 97 

being.  His  humor  —  fine  ancj  dry  as  it  was  —  was  the  humor  of  the 
wit.  He  had  little  or  none  of  the  rich  and  juicy,  nay,  almost  oily 
humor  of  Falstaff,  for  instance.  His  wit  was  the  wit  of  common- 
sense,  like  Jerrold's  or  Sydney  Smith's  ;  it  was  not  wit  informed  with 
imagination,  like  Shakespeare's  wit.  But  this  is  only  to  say  again  that 
Sheridan  was  not  one  of  the  few  world-wide  and  all-embracing 
geniuses.  He  was  one  of  those  almost  equally  few  who  in  their 
own  line,  limited  though  it  may  be,  are  unsurpassed.  It  has  been 
said  that  poets — among  whom  dramatists  are  entitled  to  stand  — 
may  be  divided  into  three  classes  ;  those  who  can  say  one  thing 
in  one  way  —  these  are  the  great  majority;  those  who  can  say  one 
thing  in  many  ways — even  these  are  not  so  many  as  they  would 
be  reckoned  generally ;  and  those  who  can  say  many  things  in  many 
ways  —  these  are  the  chosen  few,  the  scant  half-dozen  who  hold  the 
highest  peak  of  Parnassus.  In  the  front  rank  of  the  second  class 
stood  Sheridan.  The  one  thing  he  had  was  wit  —  and  of  this  in  all  its 
forms  he  was  master.  His  wit  in  general  had  a  metallic  smartness 
and  a  crystalline  coldness  ;  it  rarely  lifts  us  from  the  real  to.  the 
ideal ;  and  yet  the  whole  comedy  is  in  one  sense,  at  least,  idealized  ; 
it  bears,  in  fact,  the  resemblance  to  real  life  that  a  well-cut  diamond 
has  to  a  drop  of  water. 

Yet,  the  play  is  not  wholly  cold.  Sheridan's  wit  could  be  genial 
as  well  as  icy  —  of  which  there  could  be  no  better  proof  than  the 
success  with  which  he  has  enlisted  our  sympathies  for  the  characters 
of  his  comedy.  Sir  Peter  Teazle  is  an  old  fool,  who  has  married  a 
young  wife ;  but  we  are  all  glad  when  we  see  a  prospect  of  his  future 
happiness.  Lady  Teazle  is  flighty  and  foolish ;  and  yet  we  cannot 
help  but  like  her.  Charles  we  all  wish  well ;  and  as  for  Joseph,  we 
feel  from  the  first  so  sure  of  his  ultimate  discomfiture,  that  we  are 
ready  to  let  him  off  with  the  light  punishment  of  exposure.  There 


198  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

are,  it  is  true,  here  and  there  blemishes  to  be  detected  on  the  general 
surface,  an  occasional  hardness  of  feeling,  an  apparent  lack,  at  times, 
of  taste  and  delicacy  —  for  instance,  the  bloodthirsty  way  in  which 
the  scandal-mongers  pounce  upon  their  prey,  the  almost  brutal 
expression  by  Lady  Teazle  of  her  willingness  to  be  a  widow,  the 
ironical  speech  of  Charles  after  the  fall  of  the  screen ;  but  these  are 
perhaps  more  the  fault  of  the  age  than  of  the  author.  That  Sheridan's 
wit  ran  away  here  with  him  is  greatly  to  be  regretted.  That  in  the 
course  of  his  constant  polishing  of  the  play  he  should  not  have  seen 
these  blots,  is  only  another  instance  of  the  blindness  with  which  an 
author  is  at  times  afflicted  when  he  has  dwelt  long  on  one  work. 

The  great  defect  of  the  'School  for  Scandal'  —  the  one  thing 
which  shows  the  difference  between  a  comic  writer  of  the  type  of 
Sheridan  and  a  great  dramatist  like  Shakespeare  —  is  the  unvarying 
wit  of  the  characters.  And  not  only  are  the  characters  all  witty, 
but  they  all  talk  alike.  Their  wit  is  Sheridan's  wit,  which  is  very 
good  wit  indeed ;  but  it  is  Sheridan's  own,  and  not  Sir  Peter  Tea- 
zle's,  or  Backbite 's,  or  Careless 's,  or  Lady  SneerwelFs.  It  is  one  man 
in  his  time  playing  many  parts.  It  is  the  one  voice  always  ;  though 
the  hands  be  the  hands  of  Esau,  the  voice  is  the  voice  of  Jacob. 
And  this  quick  wit  and  ready  repartee  is  not  confined  to  the  ladies 
and  gentlemen ;  the  master  is  no  better  off  than  the  man,  and  Care- 
less airs  the  same  wit  as  Charles.  As  Sheridan  said  in  the  '  Critic,' 
he  was  "  not  for  making  slavish  distinctions  in  a  free  country,  and 
giving  all  the  fine  language  to  the  upper  sort  of  people."  Now,  no 
doubt  the  characters  do  all  talk  too  well ;  the  comedy  would  be  far 
less  entertaining  if  they  did  not.  The  stage  is  not  life,  and  it  is  not 
meant  to  be  ;  it  has  certain  conventions  on  the  acceptance  of  which 
hangs  its  existence ;  a  mere  transcript  of  ordinary  talk  would  be 
insufferable.  We  meet  bores  enough  in  the  world  —  let  the  theatre, 


INTRODUCTION.  199 

at  least,  be  free  from  them  ;  and  therefore  condensation  is  neces- 
sary, and  selection  and  a  heightening  and  brightening  of  talk.  No 
doubt  Sheridan  pushed  this  license  to  its  utmost  limit,  —  at  times 
even  beyond  it  ;  but  in  consequence  his  comedy,  if  a  little  less 
artistic  in  the  reading,  is  far  more  lively  in  the  acting.  It  has  been 
said  that  in  Shakespeare  we  find  not  the  language  we  would  use  in  the 
situations,  but  the  language  we  should  wish  to  use  —  that  we  should 
talk  so  if  we  could.  We  cannot  all  of  us  be  as  witty  as  the  charac- 
ters of  the  '  School  for  Scandal,'  but  who  of  us  would  not  if  he 
could  ? 

Wit  of  this  kind  is  not  to  be  had  without  labor.  Because  Sheri- 
dan sometimes  borrowed,  it  does  not  follow  that  he  was  incapable  of 
originating ;  or,  because  he  always  prepared  when  possible,  that  he 
was  incapable  of  impromptu.  But  he  believed  in  doing  his  best  on 
all  occasions.  If  caught  unawares,  his  natural  wit  was  ready ;  if, 
however,  he  had  time  for  preparation,  he  spared  no  pains.  He 
grudged  no  labor.  He  was  willing  to  heat  and  hammer  again  and 
again  —  to  file,  and  polish,  and  adjust,  and  oil,  until  the  delicate 
machinery  ran  smoothly,  and  to  the  satisfaction  even  of  his  fastidi- 
ous eye.  Even  in  his  early  youth  Sheridan  had  the  faculty  of  toiling 
over  his  work  to  his  immediate  improvement ;  his  friend  Halhed 
compliments  him  on  this  in  a  letter  written  in  1770.  As  Sheridan 
himself  said  in  two  lines  of  'Clio's  Protest,'  published  in  1770  —  a 
couplet  often  credited  to  Rogers  — 

"You  write  with  ease,  to  show  your  breeding, 
But  easy  writing's  curst  hard  reading." 

The  '  School  for  Scandal '  was  not  easy  writing  then,  and  it  is  not 
hard  reading  now.  Not  content  with  a  wealth  of  wit  alone  —  for  he 
did  not  hold  with  the  old  maxim  which  says  that  jests,  like  salt, 


200  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

should  be  used  sparingly ;  he  salted  with  a  lavish  hand,  and  his  plays 
have  perhaps  been  preserved  to  us  by  this  Attic  salt  —  he  sought 
the  utmost  refinement  of  language.  An  accomplished  speaker  him- 
self, he  smoothed  every  sentence  till  it  ran  trippingly  on  the  tongue. 
His  dialogue  is  easy  to  speak  as  his  songs  are  easy  to  sing.  To  add 
in  any  way  to  the  lustre  and  brilliance  of  the  slightest  sentence  of 
the  '  School  for  Scandal,'  to  burnish  a  bit  of  dialogue,  or  brighten  a 
soliloquy,  could  never  cost  Sheridan,  lazy  though  he  was,  too  much 
labor.  "This  kind  of  writing,"  as  M.  Taine  says,  "artificial  and 
condensed  as  the  satires  of  L.  Bruyere,  is  like  a  cut  vial,  into  which 
the  author  has  distilled,  without  reservation,  all  his  reflections,  his 
reading,  his  understanding."  That  this  is  true  of  Sheridan  is  obvi- 
ous. In  the  '  School  for  Scandal '  he  has  done  the  best  he  could  ; 
he  put  into  it  all  he  had  in  him ;  it  is  the  complete  expression  of  his 
genius  ;  beyond  it  he  could  not  go. 

After  its  first  great  success,  the  '  School  for  Scandal '  was  not 
long  in  crossing  to  America  ;  and  its  usual  luck  followed  it  to  these 
shores.  Mr.  Ireland,  in  his  admirable  'Records  of  the  New  York 
Stage/  which  it  is  always  a  duty  and  a  pleasure  to  praise,  notes 
what  was  probably  its  first  performance  in  New  York,  on  the  even- 
ing of  December  16,  1785,  and  on  this  occasion  the  comedy  was  cast 
to  the  full  strength  of  the  best  company  which  had  been  then  seen  in 
America.  Its  success  was  instant  and  emphatic,  and  from  that  day 
to  this  it  has  never  ceased  to  hold  a  first  place  among  acting  plays. 
It  became  at  once  the  standard  by  which  other  successful  plays  were 
to  be  measured.  Comedies  were  announced  as  "equal  to  the  'School 
for  Scandal,'  or  to  any  play  of  the  century,  the  '  School  for  Scandal ' 
not  excepted."  This  sort  of  "odorous  comparison"  continued  to  ob- 
tain for  many  years,  and  when  some  indiscreet  admirer  likened  Mrs. 
Mowatt's  '  Fashion '  to  Sheridan's  comedy,  Poe  took  occasion  to  point 


INTRODUCTION.  2OI 

out  that  the  general  tone  of  '  Fashion '  was  adopted  from  the  '  School 
for  Scandal,'  to  which,  however,  it  bore,  he  said,  just  such  affinity  as 
the  shell  of  the  locust  to  the  locust  that  tenants  it,  "as  the  spectrum 
of  a  Congreve  rocket  to  the  Congreve  rocket  itself."  It  does  not, 
however,  need  a  cruel  critic  to  show  us  how  unfair  it  was  to  compare 
Mrs.  Mowatt's  pretty  but  pretentious  play  with  the  Congreve  rockets 
and  the  Congreve  wit  of  Sheridan's  masterpiece.  That  the  '  School 
for  Scandal '  was  the  favorite  play  of  Washington,  who  was  fond  of 
the  theatre,  has  been  recorded  by  Mrs.  Whitelock,  the  sister  of 
Sarah  Siddons  and  of  John  Kemble,  and  for  a  time  the  leading  tragic 
actress  of  America.  And  in  one  point  in  particular  are  these  last- 
century  performances  in  this  country  of  especial  interest  to  the 
student  of  American  dramatic  literature.  On  April  16,  1786,  was 
first  acted  in  this  city  the  'Contrast/  a  comedy  in  five  acts,  by  Royal 
Tyler,  afterward  Chief  Justice  of  Vermont.  It  was  the  first  Ameri- 
can play  performed  on  the  public  stage  by  professional  comedians. 
It  contained  in  Jonatkcui,  acted  by  Wignell,  the  first  of  stage 
Yankees,  and  the  precursor,  therefore,  of  Asa  Trenchard,  Colonel 
Mulberry  Sellers,  and  Judge  Bardwell  Slote.  Perhaps  a  short  extract 
from  the  play,  which  was  published  in  1790,  will  show  its  connection 
with  the  '  School  for  Scandal.'  Jonathan,  green  and  innocent,  and 
holding  the  theatre  to  be  the  "  devil's  drawing  room,"  gets  into  it, 
however,  in  the  belief  that  he  is  going  to  see  a  conjuror  :  — 

Jenny.     Did  you  see  the  man  with  his  tricks  ? 

Jonathan.  Why,  I  vow,  as  I  was  looking  out  for  him,  they  lifted  up  a 
great  green  cloth  and  let  us  look  right  into  the  next  neighbor's  house.  Have 
you  a  good  many  houses  in  New  York  made  in  that  'ere  way  ? 

Jenny.     Not  many.     But  did  you  see  the  family  ? 

Jonathan.     Yes,  swamp  it,  I  seed  the  family. 

Jenny.     Well,  and  how  did  you  like  them  ? 


202  THE  SCHOOL   FOR  SCANDAL. 

Jonathan.  Well,  I  vow,  they  were  pretty  much  like  other  families ;  there 
was  a  poor,  good-natured  curse  of  a  husband,  and  a  sad  rantipole  of  a  wife. 

Jenny.     But  did  you  see  no  other  folks  ? 

Jonathan.  Yes ;  there  was  one  youngster,  they  called  him  Mr.  Joseph  ; 
he  talked  as  sober  and  as  pious  as  a  minister ;  but,  like  some  ministers  that 
I  know,  he  was  a  sly  tike  in  his  heart,  for  all  that ;  he  was  going  to  ask  a 
young  woman  to  spark  it  with  him,  and  —  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  my 
soul  —  she  was  another  man's  wife ! 

It  was  in  America  also  that  two  of  the  most  noteworthy  incidents 
in  the  career  of  the  '  School  for  Scandal'  occurred.  One  took  place 
during  a  visit  to  this  country  of  Macrcady,  who,  early  accustomed  to 
enact  the  heavy  villains  of  the  stage,  took  a  fancy  to  the  part  of 
Joseph,  and,  not  finding  it  as  prominent  as  he  liked,  sought  to  rectify 
this  defect  by  boldly  cutting  down  the  other  characters ;  and  thus 
with  the  excision  of  the  scandal-scene,  the  picture  scene,  and  several 
other  scenes,  the  '  School  for  Scandal,'  reduced  to  three  acts,  was 
played  as  an  afterpiece,  with  Macready,  very  imperfect  in  the  words 
of  the  part,  as  Joseph,  dressed  in  the  black  coat  and  trousers  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  It  may  be  remembered  that  Macready's  greater 
predecessor  as  the  chief  of  English  tragedians,  John  Philip  Kemble, 
was  also  wont  to  act  in  the  '  School  for  Scandal,'  .but  he  chose  to 
appear  as  the  more  jovial  and  younger  of  the  Surfaces,  and  his  per- 
formance of  the  careless  hero  was  known  as  Charles 's  Martyrdom. 

The  second  noteworthy  incident  was  the  performance  of  the 
'  School  for  Scandal,'  on  the  centenary  of  its  first  production,  on  May 
8,  1877,  at  the  Grand  Opera  House,  Toronto,  in  the  presence  of  the 
Governor  General  of  Canada,  Lord  Dufferin,  the  great  grandson  of 
Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan. 

In  the  same  year  that  this  memorable  performance  took  place  in  a 
former  French  province,  Miss  Genevieve  Ward,  an  American  actress, 


INTRODUCTION.  203 

appeared  as  Lady  Teazle  in  Paris  in  a  French  version ;  and  the  fore- 
most of  Parisian  dramatic  critics,  M.  Francisque  Sarcey  seized  the 
opportunity  for  a  most  interesting  appreciation  of  the  play.  He  con- 
sidered it  one  of  the  best  of  the  second  class,  and,  as  in  his  view 
the  first  class  would  contain  few  plays  but  those  of  Shakespeare  and 
Moliere,  this  is  high  praise.  He  ranked  the  '  School  for  Scandal'  with 
the  '  Mariage  de  Figaro,'  and  instituted  the  comparison  of  Sheridan 
with  Beaumarchais,  which  M.  Taine  had  already  attempted.  But  M. 
Sarcey  held  a  more  just  as  well  as  a  more  favorable  opinion  of  the 
'School  for  Scandal '  than  M.  Taine.  An  earlier  French  critic,  Ville- 
main,  who  edited  a  close  translation  of  the  play  for  the  series  of  for- 
eign masterpieces,  declared  it  to  be  one  of  the  most  amusing  and 
most  wittily-comic  plays  which  can  anywhere  be  seen,  and  he  hit 
upon  one -of  its  undoubted  merits  when  he  pointed  out  that  its  "wit 
is  so  radically  comic  that  it  can  be  translated,  which,  as  all  know,  is 
the  most  perilous  trial  for  wit  possible."  M.  Sarcey  informs  us  that 
the  '  School  for  Scandal '  is  now  and  has  been  for  years,  used  as  a 
text-book  in  French  schools,  and  that  he  himself  was  taught  to  read 
English  out  of  Sheridan's  play.  Such  is  also  the  opinion  of  M. 
Hegesippe  Cler,  who  published  a  French  translation  of  the  '  School 
for  Scandal '  in  1879,  with  a  preface,  in  which  he  declared  that  Sheri- 
dan's comedy  was  particularly  French,  nay,  even  Parisian,  and  that  it 
is  absolutely  harmless  and  fitted  exactly  for  use  in  teaching  in 
schools  for  girls.  Oddly  enough  this  is  the  exact  reverse  of  the 
opinion  of  the  French  critics  of  a  century  ago.  In  1788  the  auction 
and  screen  scenes  had  been  introduced  into  a  little  piece  called  the 
'  Deux  Neveux;'  a  year  later  a  translation  in  French  by  M.  Delille, 
with  the  permission,  apparently,  of  Sheridan  himself,  was  published 
in  London.  Certain  episodes  were  utilized  in  the  '  Portraits  de  Fam- 
ille,'  the  '  Deux  Cousins '  and  '  Valsain  et  Florville  ; '  and  finally,  in 


204  THE  SCHOOL   FOR  SCANDAL. 

1789,  a  version  of  the  whole  play  by  Pluteau  was  acted  as  'L'Homme 
Sentimental'  —  but  the  subject  was  too  risky,  and  the  scenes  were 
too  broad  for  the  fastidious  taste  of  the  Parisians.  Even  Grimm  was 
shocked  by  it  —  and  one  would  think  it  took  much  to  shock  Grimm. 
A  second  adaptation  was  produced  at  the  Theatre  Francais ;  it  was 
called  the  '  Tartuffe  des  Mceurs.'  Fifty  or  sixty  years  ago,  yet  an- 
other version,  '  L'Ecole  du  Scandale,'  by  two  melodramatic  writers, 
Crosnier  and  Jouslin  de  la  Salle,  was  acted  at  the  Porte  St.-Martin 
Theatre,  with  the  pathetic  Mme  Dorval  as  Milady  Tizle.  Oddly 
enough  it  was  Mme  Dorvai's  husband,  Merle,  who  was  the  cause  of 
the  first  performance  in  France  of  the  '  Schcol  for  Scandal '  in  Eng- 
lish by  English  actors.  Merle  was  one  of  the  managers  of  the  Porte 
St.-Martin  Theatre  in  1822,  and  he  arranged  for  a  series  of  perfor- 
mances by  the  company  of  the  Brighton  Theatre,  then  managed 
by  Mr.  Penley.  The  English  comedians  opened  their  season  with 
'  Othello '  but  it  was  only  seven  years  after  Waterloo,  and  Shakespeare 
was  stormily  received.  For  the  second' performance  Sheridan  took 
Shakespeare's  place,  and  the  'School  for  Scandal'  was  announced  for 
Friday,  August  2,  1822.  But  the  day  was  unlucky,  and  the  mob 
which  took  possession  of  the  theatre  would  not  allow  the  English 
comedy  to  be  acted  at  all.  It  is  interesting  to  note  the  change  which 
took  place  in  France  in  the  short  space  of  five  years.  In  1827,  when 
the  Covent  Garden  company  appeared  at  the  Odeon  Theatre,  they 
met  with  a  cordial  welcome  ;  and  they  began  their  season  with  Sheri- 
dan's other  comedy,  the  '  Rivals.' 

The  Germans  were  not  behind  the  French  in  the  enjoyment  of 
the  'School  for  Scandal.'  Shroder,  the  actor  and  author,  went  from 
Vienna  to  London  —  no  small  journey,  a  hundred  years  ago  — 
expressly  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  it  acted.  He  understood  English 
well,  and  attended  every  performance  of  the  piece  while  he  was  in 


INTRODUCTION.  2O$ 

England.  On  his  return  to  Vienna,  he  produced  an  adaptation  —  for 
it  is  such,  and  not  a  translation,  though  the  spirit  of  the  original  is 
well  preserved  —  which  has  held  the  German  stage  ever  since.  The 
texture  of  the  '  School  for  Scandal,'  its  solidity  of  situation,  its  com- 
pact and  easily  comprehensible  plot,  and  its  ceaseless  play  of  wit, — 
"a  sort  of  El  Dorado  of  wit,"  as  Moore  calls  it,  "where  the  precious 
metal  is  thrown  about  by  all  classes  as  carelessly  as  if  they  had  not 
the  least  idea  of  its  value,"  —  these  were  all  qualities  sure  to  commend 
it  to  German  audiences  as  to  French.  Macready  records  himself  as 
having  seen  in  Venice  an  Italian  version  of  the  play  —  that  by 
Carpani,  probably  —  which  could  "hardly  have  followed  the  original 
as  closely  as  was  to  be  desired ;  but  the  strength  of  the  situations  and 
the  contrast  of  the  characters  would  always  carry  the  piece  through 
in  any  language  and  in  spite  of  any  alterations.  There  are  transla- 
tions of  the  'School  for  Scandal'  in  many  other  languages.  In  1877 
it  was  acted  with  success  in  Dutch  at  the  Hague;  and  in  1884  a 
Gujarati  version,  adapted  to  modern  Parsee  life  by  Mr.  K.  N.  Kabra- 
jee,  was  produced,  also  with  success,  at  the  Esplanade  Theatre  in 
Bombay. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS, 

AS    ORIGINALLY    ACTED    AT    DRURY-LANE   THEATRE,    MAY   8,   1777. 


SIR  PETER  TEAZLE Mr.  King. 

SIR  OLIVER  SURFACE Mr.  Yates. 

SIR  HARRY  BUMPER Mr.  Gawdry 

SIR  BENJAMIN  BACKBITE Mr.  Dodd. 

JOSEPH  SURFACE      .     .    .     .  * Mr.  Palmer. 

CHARLES  SURFACE Mr.  Smith. 

CARELESS Mr.  Farren. 

SNAKE Mr.  Packer. 

CRABTREE •  Mr.  Parsons. 

ROWLEY Mr.  Aickin. 

MOSES Mr.  Saddeley. 

TRIP Mr.  Lamash. 

LADY  TEAZLE Mrs.  Abington. 

LADY  SNEERWELL Miss  Sherry. 

MRS.  CANDOUR Miss  Pope. 

MARIA Miss  P.  Hopkins. 

Gentlemen,  Maid,  and  Servants. 

. 


SCENE  — LONDON. 


A    PORTRAIT: 

ADDRESSED   TO    MRS.    CREWE,    WITH   THE    COMEDY    OF   THE     SCHOOL 
FOR   SCANDAL. 

BY  R.    B.    SHERIDAN,  ESQ,. 


TELL  me,  ye  prim  adepts  in  Scandal's  school, 
Who  rail  by  precept  and  detract  by  rule, 
Lives  there  no  character,  so  tried,  so  known, 
So  deck'd  with  grace,  and  so  unlike  your  own, 
That  even  you  assist  her  fame  to  raise, 
Approve  by  envy,  and  by  silence  praise ! 
Attend  !  —  a  model  shall  attract  your  view  — 
Daughters  of  calumny,  I  summon  you ! 
You  shall  decide  if  this  a  portrait  prove, 
Or  fond  creation  of  the  Muse  and  Love. 
Attend,  ye  virgin  critics,  shrewd  and  sage, 
Ye  matron  censors  of  this  childish  age, 
Whose  peering  eye  and  wrinkled  front  declare 
A  fix'd  antipathy  to  young  and  fair; 
By  cunning,  cautious ;  or  by  nature,  cold, 
In  maiden  madness,  virulently  bold  !  — 
Attend,  ye  skill'd  to  coin  the  precious  tale. 
Creating  proof,  where  innuendoes  fail ! 
Whose  practised  memories,  cruelly  exact, 
Omit  no  circumstance,  except  the  fact !  — 

207 


208  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

Attend,  all  ye  who  boast,  —  or  old  or  young,  — 

The  living  libel  of  a  slanderous  tongue ! 

So   shall  my  theme  as  far  contrasted  be, 

As  saints  by  fiends,  or  hymns  by  calumny. 

Come,  gentle  Amoret  (for  'neath  that  name 

In  worthier  verse  is  sung  thy  beauty's  fame) ; 

Come  —  for  but  thee  who  seeks  the  muse?  and  while 

Celestial  blushes  check  thy  conscious  smile, 

With  timid  grace,  and  hesitating  eye, 

The  perfect  model,  which  I  boast,  supply :  — 

Vain  Muse !  could* st  thou  the  humblest  sketch  create 

Of  her,  or  slightest  charm  could'st  imitate  — 

Could  thy  blest  strain  in  kindred  colors  trace 

The  faintest  wonder  of  her  form  and  face  — 

Poets  would  study  the  immortal  line, 

And  Reynolds  own  his  art  subdued  by  thine, 

That  art,  which  well  might  added  lustre  give 

To  Nature's  best,  and  Heaven's  superlative : 

On  Granby's  cheek  might  bid  new  glories  rise, 

Or  point  a  purer  beam  from  Devon  s  eyes ! 

Hard  is  the  task  to  shape  that  beauty's  praise, 

Whose  judgment  scorns  the  homage  flattery  pays! 

But  praising  Amoret  we  cannot  err, 

No  tongue  o'ervalues  Heaven,  or  flatters  her  ! 

Yet  she  by  fate's  perverseness  —  she  alone 

Would  doubt  cur  truth,  nor  deem  such  praise  her  own. 

Adorning  fashion,  unadorn'd  by  dress, 

Simple  from  taste,  and  not  from  carelessness  ; 

Discreet  in  gesture,  in  deportment  mild, 

Not  stiff  with  prudence,  nor  uncouthly  wild : 


A   PORTRAIT.  209 

No  state  has  Amoret;  no  studied  mien ; 

She  frowns  no  goddess,  and  she  moves  no  queen. 

The  softer  charm  that  in  her  manner  lies 

Is  framed  to  captivate,  yet  not  surprise ; 

It  justly  suits  the  expression  of  her  face,  — 

'T  is  less  than  dignity,  and  more  than  grace  ! 

On  her  pure  cheek  the  native  hue  is  such, 

That,  form'd  by  Heaven  to  be  admired  so  much, 

The  hand  divine,  with  a  less  partial  care, 

Might  well  have  fix'd  a  fainter  crimson  there, 

And  bade  the  gentle  inmate  of  her  breast  — 

Inshrined  Modesty  —  supply  the  rest. 

But  who  the  peril  of  her  lips  shall  paint  ? 

Strip  them  of  smiles  —  still,  still  all  words  are  faint, 

But  moving  Love  himself  appears  to  teach 

Their  action,  though  denied  to  rule  her  speech ; 

And  thou  who  seest  her  speak,  and  dost  not  hear, 

Mourn  not  her  distant  accents  'scape  thine  ear ; 

Viewing  those  lips,  thou  still  may'st  make  pretence 

To  judge  of  what  she  says,  and  swear  't  is  sense  : 

Clothed  with  such  grace,  with  such  expression  fraught, 

They  move  in  meaning,  and  they  pause  in  thought  ! 

But  dost  thou  farther  watch,  with  charm'd  surprise, 

The  mild  irresolution  of -her  eyes, 

Curious  to  mark  how  frequent  they  repose, 

In  brief  eclipse  and  momentary  close  — 

Ah  !  seest  thou  not  an  ambush'd  Cupid  there, 

Too  tim'rous  of  his  charge,  with  jealous  care 

Veils  and  unveils  those  beams  of  heavenly  light, 

Too  full,  too  fatal  else,  for  mortal  sight  ? 


210  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

Nor  yet,  such  pleasing  vengeance  fond  to  meet, 

In  pard'ning  dimples  hope  a  safe  retreat. 

What  though  her  peaceful  breast  should  ne'er  allow 

Subduing  frowns  to  arm  her  alter'd  brow, 

By  Love,  I  swear,  and  by  his  gentle  wiles, 

More  fatal  still  the  mercy  of  her  smiles ! 

Thus  lovely,  thus  adorn'd,  possessing  all 

Of  bright  or  fair  that  can  to  woman  fall, 

The  height  of  vanity  might  well  be  thought 

Prerogative  in  her,  and  Nature's  fault. 

Yet  gentle  Amoret,  in  mind  supreme 

As  well  as  charms,  rejects  the  vainer  theme; 

And,  half  mistrustful  of  her  beauty's  store, 

She  barbs  with  wit  those  darts  too  keen  before  :  — 

Read  in  all  knowledge  that  her  sex  should  reach, 

Though  Greville,  or  the  Muse,  should  deign  to  teach, 

Fond  to  improve,  nor  timorous  to  discern 

How  far  it  is  a  woman's  grace  to  learn ; 

In  Millar  s  dialect  she  would  not  prove 

Apollo's  priestess,  but  Apollo's  love, 

Graced  by  those  signs  which  truth  delights  to  own, 

The  timid  blush,  and  mild  submitted  tone : 

Whate'er  she  says,  though  sense  appear  throughout, 

Displays  the  tender  hue  of  female  doubt ; 

Deck'd  with  that  charm,  how  lovely  wit  appears, 

How  graceful  science,  when  that  robe  she  wears ! 

Such  too  her  talents,  and  her  bent  of  mind, 

As  speak  a  sprightly  heart  by  thought  refined  : 

A  taste  for  mirth,  by  contemplation  school'd, 

A  turn  for  ridicule,  by  candor  ruled, 


PROLOGUE.  211 

A  scorn  of  folly,  which  she  tries  to  hide ; 

An  awe  of  talent,  which  she  owns  with  pride ! 

Peace,  idle  Muse  !  —  no  more  thy  strain  prolong, 
But  yield  a  theme,  thy  warmest  praises  wrong ; 
Just  to  her  merit,  though  thou  canst  not  raise 
Thy  feeble  verse,  behold  th'  acknowledged  praise 
Has  spread  conviction  through  the  envious  train, 
And  cast  a  fatal  gloom  o'er  Scandal's  reign  ! 
And  lo  !  each  pallid  hag,  with  blister'd  tongue, 
Mutters  assent  to  all  thy  zeal  has  sung  — 
Owns  all  the  colors  just  —  the  outline  true, 
Thee  my  inspirer,  and  my  model — CREWE! 


PROLOGUE. 

WRITTEN    BY    MR.    GARRICK. 


A  SCHOOL  for  Scandal !  tell  me,  I  beseech  you, 
Needs  there  a  school  this  modish  art  to  teach  you  ? 
No  need  of  lessons  now,  the  knowing  think ; 
We  might  as  well  be  taught  to  eat  and  drink. 
Caused  by  a  dearth  of  scandal,  should  the  vapors 
Distress  our  fair  ones — let  them  read  the  papers; 
Their  powerful  mixtures  such  disorders  hit ; 
Crave  what  you  will  —  there  's  quantum  suffidt. 
"  Lord  !  "  cries  my  Lady  Wonmvood  (who  loves  tattle, 
And  puts  much  salt  and  pepper  in  her  prattle), 
Just  risen  at  noon,  all  night  at  cards  when  threshing 
Strong  tea  and  scandal  —    "  Bless  me,  how  refreshing 


212  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCAXDAL. 

Give  me  the  papers,  Lisp  —  how  bold  and  free  !     [Sips. 
Last  night  Lord  L.  [Sif>s]  was  caught  with  Lady  D. 
For  aching  heads  what  charming  sal  volatile  !     [Sips. 
If  Mrs.  B.  will  still  continue  flirting, 
We  hope  she  7/  DRAW,  or  we  II  UNDRAW  the  curtain. 
Fine  satire,  poz — in  public  all  abuse  it, 
But,  by  ourselves  [Sips'],  our  praise  we  can't  refuse  it. 
Now,  Lisp,  read  you  —  there,  at  that  dash  and  star." 
"  Yes,  ma'am  — A  certain  lord  had  best  beware. 
Who  lives  not  twenty  miles  from  Grosvenor  Square  ; 
For,  should  he  Lady  W.  find  willing, 

Wormwood  is  bitter" "  Oh  !  that 's  me  !  the  villain  ! 

Throw  it  behind  the  fire,  and  never  more 

Let  that  vile  paper  come  within  my  door." 

Thus  at  our  friends  we  laugh,  who  feel  the  dart ; 

To  reach  our  feelings,  we  ourselves  must  smart. 

Is  our  young  bard  so  young,  to  think  that  he 

Can  stop  the  full  spring-tide  of  calumny  ? 

Knows  he  the  world  so  little,  and  its  trade  ? 

Alas  !  the  devil 's  sooner  raised  than  laid. 

So  strong,  so  swift,  the  monster  there 's  no  gagging : 

Cut  Scandal's  head  off,  still  the  tongue  is  wagging. 

Proud  of  your  smiles  once  lavishly  bestow'd, 

Again  our  young  Don  Quixote  takes  the  road  ; 

To  show  his  gratitude  he  draws  his  pen, 

And  seeks  this  hydra,  Scandal,  in  his  den. 

For  your  applause  all  perils  he  would  through  — - 

He'll  fight — that's  write  —  a  cavalliero  true, 

Till  every  drop  of  blood  —  that 's  ink  —  is  spilt  for  you. 


THE   SCHOOL   FOR  SCANDAL 

A   COMEDY. 


ACT   I. 
SCENE  I.  —  LADY  SNEERWELL'S  Dressing-room. 

LADY  SNEERWELL  discovered  at  the  dressing-table ;  SNAKE  dt  inking 
chocolate. 

Lady  Sneer.  The  paragraphs,  you  say,  Mr.  Snake,  were  all  in- 
serted ? 

Snake.  They  were,  madam  ;  and,  as  I  copied  them  myself  in  a 
feigned  hand,  there  can  be  no  suspicion  whence  they  came. 

Lady  Sneer.  Did  you  circulate  the  report  of  Lady  Brittle's  in- 
trigue with  Captain  Boastall  ? 

Snake.  That 's  in  as  fine  a  train  as  your  ladyship  could  wish.  In 
the  common  course  of  things,  I  think  it  must  reach  Mrs.  Clackitt's 
ears  within  four-and-twenty  hours  ;  and  then,  you  know,  the  business 
is  as  good  as  done. 

Lady  Sneer.  Why,  truly,  Mrs.  Clackitt  has  a  very  pretty  talent, 
and  a  great  deal  of  industry, 

Snake.  True,  madam,  and  has  been  tolerably  successful  in  her 
day.  To  my  knowledge,  she  has  been  the  cause  of  six  matches  being 
broken  off,  and  three  sons  being  disinherited ;  of  four  forced  elope- 

213 


214  THE  SCHOOL   FOR  SCANDAL. 

ments,  and  as  many  close  confinements  ;  nine  separate  maintenances, 
and  two  divorces.  Nay,  I  have  more  than  once  traced  her  causing  a 
tete-a-tete  in  the  "  Town  and  Country  Magazine,"  when  the  parties, 
perhaps,  had  never  seen  each  other's  face  before  in  the  course  of 
their  lives. 

Lady  Sneer.    She  certainly  has  talents,  but  her  manner  is  gross. 

Snake.  'T  is  very  true.  She  generally  designs  well,  has  a  free 
tongue  and  a  bold  invention ;  but  her  coloring  is  too  dark,  and  her 
outlines  often  extravagant.  She  wants  that  delicacy  of  tint,  and 
mellowness  of  sneer,  which  distinguish  your  ladyship's  scandal. 

Lady  Sneer.    You  are  partial,  Snake. 

Snake.  Not  in  the  least ;  everybody  allows  that  Lady  Sneerwell 
can  do  more  with  a  word  or  look  than  many  can  with  the  most 
labored  detail,  even  when  they  happen  to  have  a  little  truth  on  their 
side  to  support  it. 

Lady  Sneer.  Yes,  my  dear  Snake ;  and  I  am  no  hypocrite  to  deny 
the  satisfaction  I  reap  from  the  success  of  my  efforts.  Wounded 
myself,  in  the  early  part  of  my  life,  by  the  envenomed  tongue  of 
slander,  I  confess  I  have  since  known  no  pleasure  equal  to  the  reduc- 
ing others  to  the  level  of  my  own  reputation. 

Snake.  Nothing  can  be.  more  natural.  But,  Lady  Sneerwell, 
there  is  one  affair  in  which  you  have  lately  employed  me,  wherein,  I 
confess,  I  am  at  a  loss  to  guess  your  motives. 

Lady  Sneer.  I  conceive  you  mean  with  respect  to  my  neighbor, 
Sir  Peter  Teazle,  and  his  family  ? 

Snake.  I  do.  Here  are  two  young  men,  to  whom  Sir  Peter  has 
acted  as  a  kind  of  guardian  since  their  father's  death  ;  the  eldest 
possessing  the  most  amiable  character,  and  universally  well  spoken 
of  —  the  youngest,  the  most  dissipated  and  extravagant  young  fellow 
in  the  kingdom,  without  friends  or  character :  the  former  an  avowed 


A    COMEDY.  215 

admirer  of  your  ladyship,  and  apparently  your  favorite ;  the  latter 
attached  to  Maria,  Sir  Peter's  ward,  and  confessedly  beloved  by  her. 
Now,  on  the  face  of  these  circumstances,  it  is  utterly  unaccountable 
to  me,  why  you,  the  widow  of  a  city  knight,  with  a  good  jointure, 
should  not  close  with  the  passion  of  a  man  of  such  character  and 
expectations  as  Mr.  Surface  ;  and  more  so  why  you  should  be  so 
uncommonly  earnest  to  destroy  the  mutual  attachment  subsisting 
between  his  brother  Charles  and  Maria. 

Lady  Sneer.  Then,  at  once  to  unravel  this  mystery,  I  must  inform 
you  that  love  has  no  share  whatever  in  the  intercourse  between  Mr. 
Surface  and  me. 

Snake.    No! 

Lady  Sneer.  His  real  attachment  is  to  Maria,  or  her  fortune ;  but, 
finding  in  his  brother  a  favored  rival,  he  has  been  obliged  to  mask 
his  pretensions,  and  profit  by  my  assistance. 

Snake.  Yet  still  I  am  more  puzzled  why  you  should  interest  your- 
self in  his  success. 

Lady  Sneer.  Heavens !  how  dull  you  are  !  Cannot  you  surmise 
the  weakness  which  I  hitherto,  through  shame,  have  concealed 
even  from  you?  Must  I  confess  that  Charles  —  that  libertine,  that 
extravagant,  that  bankrupt  in  fortune  and  reputation  —  that  he  it  is 
for  whom  I  am  thus  anxious  and  malicious,  and  to  gain  whom  I 
would  sacrifice  everything  ? 

Snake.  Now,  indeed,  your  conduct  appears  consistent :  but  how 
came  you  and  Mr.  Surface  so  confidential  ? 

Lady  Sneer.  For  our  mutual  interest.  I  have  found  him  out  a 
long  time  since.  I  know  him  to  be  artful,  selfish,  and  malicious  — 
in  short,  a  sentimental  knave  ;  while  with  Sir  Peter,  and  indeed  with 
all  his  acquaintance,  he  passes  for  a  youthful  miracle  of  prudence, 
good  sense,  and  benevolence. 


216  THE  SCHOOL   FOR  SCANDAL. 

Snake.  Yes ;  yet  Sir  Peter  vows  he  has  not  his  equal  in 
England — and,  above  all,  he  praises  him  as  a  man  of  sen- 
timent. 

Lady  Sneer.  True ;  and  with  the  assistance  of  his  sentiment 
and  hypocrisy  he  has  brought  Sir  Peter  entirely  into  his  interest 
with  regard  to  Maria  ;  while  poor  Charles  has  no  friend  in  the 
house — though,  I  fear,  he  has  a  powerful  one  in  Maria's  heart, 
against  whom  we  must  direct  our  schemes. 

Enter  SERVANT. 
Ser.    Mr.  Surface. 

Lady  Sneer.  Show  him  up.  \Exit  SERVANT.]  He  generally  calls 
about  this  time.  I  don't  wonder  at  people  giving  him  to  me  for 

a  lover. 

Enter  JOSEPH  SURFACE. 

Jos.  Surf.  My  dear  Lady  Sneerwell,  how  do  you  do  to-day  ? 
Mr.  Snake,  your  most  obedient. 

Lady  Sneer.  Snake  has  just  been  rallying  me  on  our  mutual 
attachment ;  but  I  have  informed  him  of  our  real  views.  You 
know  how  useful  he  has  been  to  us ;  and,  believe  me,  the  confi- 
dence is  not  ill  placed. 

Jos.  Stiff.  Madam,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  suspect  a  man  of 
Mr.  Snake's  sensibility  and  discernment. 

Lady  Sneer.  Well,  well,  no  compliments  now ;  but  tell  me  when 
you  saw  your  mistress,  Maria  —  or,  what  is  more  material  to  me, 
your  brother. 

Jos.  Sntf.  I  have  not  seen  either  since  I  left  you  ;  but  I '  can 
inform  you  that  they  never  meet.  Some  of  your  stories  have  taken 
a  good  effect  on  Maria. 

Lady  Sneer.  Ah,  my  dear  Snake!  the  merit  of  this  belongs  to 
you.  But  do  your  brother's  distresses  increase  ? 


A    COMEDY.  2i; 

Jos  Surf.  Every  hour.  I  am  told  he  has  had  another  execu- 
tion in  the  house  yesterday.  In  short,  his  dissipation  and  extrav- 
agance exceed  anything  I  have  ever  heard  of. 

Lady  Sneer.  Poor  Charles  ! 

Jos.  Surf.  True,  madam ;  notwithstanding  his  vices,  one  can't 
help  feeling  for  him.  Poor  Charles  !  I  'm  sure  I  wish  it  were  in 
my  power  to  be  of  any  essential  service  to  him ;  for  the  man 
who  does  not  share  in  the  distresses  of  a  brother,  even  though 
merited  by  his  own  misconduct,  deserves 

Lady  Sneer.  O  Lud !  you  are  going  to  be  moral,  and  forget 
that  you  are  among  friends. 

Jos.  Surf.  Egad,  that 's  true  !  I  '11  keep  that  sentiment  till  I  see 
Sir  Peter.  However,  it  is  certainly  a  charity  to  rescue  Maria 
from  such  a  libertine,  who,  if  he  is  to  be  reclaimed,  can  be  so 
only  by  a  person  of"  your  ladyship's  superior  accomplishments  and 
understanding. 

Snake.  I  believe,  Lady  Sneerwell,  here  's  company  coming ;  I  '11 
go  and  copy  the  letter  I  mentioned  to  you.  Mr.  Surface,  your 
most  obedient. 

Jos.  Surf.  Sir,  your  very  devoted. —  \Exit  SNAKE.]  Lady  Sneer- 
well,  I  am  very  sorry  you  have  put  any  farther  confidence  in  that 
fellow. 

Lady  Sneer.    Why  so  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  I  have  lately  detected  him  in  frequent  conference 
with  old  Rowley,  who  was  formerly  my  father's  steward,  and  has 
never,  you  know,  been  a  friend  of  mine. 

Lady  Sneer.    And  do  you  think  he  would  betray  us  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  Nothing  more  likely :  take  my  word  for 't,  Lady  Sneer- 
well,  that  fellow  has-n't  virtue  enough  to  be  faithful  even  to  his 
own  villainy. —  Ah,  Maria  ! 


218  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

Enter  MARIA.  • 

Lady  Sneer,  Maria,  my  dear,  how  do  you  do  ?  —  What 's  the 
matter  ? 

Mar.  Oh  !  there 's  that  disagreeable  lover  of  mine,  Sir  Benja- 
min Backbite,  has  just  called  at  my  guardian's,  with  his  odious 
uncle,  Crabtree ;  so  I  slipped  out,  and  ran  hither  to  avoid  them. 

Lady  Sneer.   Is  that  all  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  If  my  brother  Charles  had  been  of  the  party,  madam, 
perhaps  you  would  not  have  been  so  much  alarmed. 

Lady  Sneer.  Nay,  now  you  are  severe ;  for  I  dare  swear  the 
truth  of  the  matter  is,  Maria  heard  you  were  here.  But,  my 
dear,  what  has  Sir  Benjamin  done,  that  you  should  avoid  him 
so? 

Mar.  Oh,  he  has  done  nothing — but  'tis  for  what  he  has  said: 
his  conversation  is  a  perpetual  libel  on  all  his  acquaintance. 

Jos.  Surf.  Ay,  and  the  worst  of  it  is,  there  is  no  advantage  in 
not  knowing  him;  for  he'll  abuse  a  stranger  just  as  soon  as  his 
best  friend  :  and  his  uncle 's  as  bad. 

Lady  Sneer.  Nay,  but  we  should  make  allowance ;  Sir  Benja- 
min is  a  wit  and  a  poet. 

Mar.  For  my  part,  I  own,  madam,  wit  loses  its  respect  with  me, 
when  I  see  it  in  company  with  malice.  What  do  you  think,  Mr. 
Surface  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  Certainly,  madam  ;  to  smile  at  the  jest  which  plants  a 
thorn  in  another's  breast  is  to  become  a  principal  in  the  mischief. 

Lady  Sneer.  Psha  !  there 's  no  possibility  of  being  witty  without 
a  little  ill  nature  :  the  malice  of  a  good  thing  is  the  barb  that  makes 
it  stick.  What 's  your  opinion,  Mr.  Surface  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  To  be  sure,  madam :  that  conversation,  where  the 
spirit  of  raillery  is  suppressed,  will  ever  appear  tedious  and  insipid. 


A    COMEDY.  219 

Mar.  Well,  I  '11  not  debate  how  far  scandal  may  be  allowable ; 
but  in  a  man,  I  am  sure,  it  is  always  contemptible.  We  have  pride, 
envy,  rivalship,  and  a  thousand  motives  to  depreciate  each  other  :  but 
the  male  slanderer  must  have  the  cowardice  of  a  woman  before  he 

can  traduce  one. 

Re-Enter  SERVANT. 

Ser.  Madam,  Mrs.  Candour  is  below,  and,  if  your  ladyship  's  at 
leisure,  will  leave  her  carriage. 

Lady  Sneer.  Beg  her  to  walk  in.  —  [Exit  SERVANT.]  Now,  Maria, 
here  is  a  character  to  your  taste  ;  for,  though  Mrs.  Candour  is  a  little 
talkative,  everybody  allows  her  to  be  the  best-natured  and  best  sort 
of  woman. 

Mar.  Yes,  —  with  a  very  gross  affectation  of  good-nature  and 
benevolence,  she  does  more  mischief  than  the  direct  malice  of 
old  Crabtree. 

Jos.  Surf.  F  faith  that 's  true,  Lady  Sneerwell :  whenever  I  hear 
the  current  running  against  the  characters  of  my  friends,  I  never 
think  them  in  such  danger  as  when  Candour  undertakes  their 
defence . 

Lady  Sneer.    Hush  !  —  here  she  is  !  — 

Enter  MRS.  CANDOUR. 

Mrs.  Can.  My  dear  Lady  Sneerwell,  how  have  you  been  this 
century? — Mr.  Surface,  what  news  do  you  hear? — though  indeed 
it  is  no  matter,  for  I  think  one  hears  nothing  else  but  scandal. 

Jos.  Surf.    Just  so,  indeed,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Can.  Oh,  Maria!  child,  —  what,  is  the  whole  affair  off  be- 
tween you  and  Charles?  —  His  extravagance,  I  presume  —  the  town 
talks  of  nothing  else. 

Mar.    I  am  very  sorry,  ma'am,  the  town  has  so  little  to  do. 

Mrs.  Can.    True,  true,   child :   but   there 's  no  stopping  people's 


220  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

tongues.  I  own  I  was  hurt  to  hear  it,  as  I  indeed  was  to  learn,  from 
the  same  quarter,  that  your  guardian,  Sir  Peter,  and  Lady  Teazle 
have  not  agreed  lately  as  well  as  could  be  wished. 

Mar.    'T  is  strangely  impertinent  for  people  to  busy  themselves  so. 

Mrs.  Can.  Very  true,  child  :  but  what 's  to  be  done  ?  People  will 
talk — there's  no  preventing  it.  Why,  it  was  but  yesterday  I  was 
told  that  Miss  Gadabout  had  eloped  with  Sir  Filigree  Flirt.  But, 
Lord  !  there  's  no  minding  what  one  hears  ;  though,  to  be  sure,  I 
had  this  from  very  good  authority. 

Mar.    Such  reports  are  highly  scandalous. 

Mrs.  Can.  So  they  are,  child  —  shameful,  shameful!  But  the 
world  is  so  censorious,  no  character  escapes.  —  Lord,  now  who 
would  have  suspected  your  friend,  Miss  Prim,  of  an  indiscretion? 
Yet  such  is  the  ill  nature  of  people,  that  they  say  her  uncle  stopped 
her  last  week,  just  as  she  was  stepping  into  the  York  diligence  with 
her  dancing-master. 

Mar.    I  '11  answer  for  't  there  are  no  grounds  for  that  report. 

Mrs.  Can.  Ah,  no  foundation  in  the  world,  I  dare  swear:  no 
more,  probably,  than  for  the  story  circulated  last  month,  of  Mrs. 
Festino's  affair  with  Colonel  Cassino  —  though,  to  be  sure,  that 
matter  was  never  rightly  cleared  up. 

Jos.  Surf.  The  licence  of  invention  some  people  take  is  monstrous 
indeed. 

Mar.  'T  is  so ;  but,  in  my  opinion,  those  who  report  such  things 
are  equally  culpable. 

Mrs.  Can.  To  be  sure  they  are ;  tale-bearers  are  as  bad  as  the 
tale-makers  —  't  is  an  old  observation,  and  a  very  true  one  :  but 
what 's  to  be  done,  as  I  said  before  ?  how  will  you  prevent  people 
from  talking  ?  To-day,  Mrs.  Clackitt  assured  me,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Honeymoon  were  at  last  become  mere  man  and  wife,  like  the  rest 


A    COMEDY.  221 

of  their  acquaintance.  She  likewise  hinted  that  a  certain  widow,  in 
the  next  street,  had  got  rid  of  her  dropsy  and  recovered  her  shape  in 
a  most  surprising  manner.  And  at  the  same  time  Miss  Tattle,  who 
was  by,  affirmed  that  Lord  Buffalo  had  discovered  his  lady  at  a  house 
of  no  extraordinary  fame  ;  and  that  Sir  Harry  Bouquet  and  Tom 
Saunter  were  to  measure  swords  on  a  similar  provocation.  —  But, 
Lord,  do  you  think  I  would  report  these  things?  —  No,  no  !  tale- 
bearers, as  I  said  before,  are  just  as  bad  as  the  tale-makers. 

Jos.  Surf.  Ah !  Mrs.  Candour,  if  everybody  had  your  forbearance 
and  good  nature ! 

Mrs.  Can.  I  confess,  Mr.  Surface,  I  cannot  bear  to  hear  people 
attacked  behind  their  backs  ;  and  when  ugly  circumstances  come  out 
against  our  acquaintance  I  own  I  always  love  to  think  the  best.  — 
By  the  by,  I  hope  'tis  not  true  that  your  brother  is  absolutely 
ruined  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  I  am  afraid  his  circumstances  are  very  bad  indeed, 
ma'am. 

Mrs.  Can.  Ah!  I  heard  so  —  but  you  must  tell  him  to  keep  up 
his  spirits  :  everybody  almost  is  in  the  same  way :  Lord  Spindle,  Sir 
Thomas  Splint,  Captain  Ouinze,  and  Mr.  Nickit — all  up,  I  hear, 
within  this  week;  so,  if  Charles  is  undone,  he'll  find  half  his  ac- 
quaintance ruined  too,  and  that,  you  know,  is  a  consolation. 

Jos.  Surf.    Doubtless,  ma'am — a  very  great  one. 
Re-Enter  SERVANT. 

Ser.    Mr.  Crabtree  and  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite.       \Exit  SERVANT. 

Lady  Sneer.  So,  Maria,  you  see  your  lover  pursues  you :  posi- 
tively you  sha'n't  escape. 

Enter  CRABTREE  and  SIR  BENJAMIN  BACKBITE. 

Crab.  Lady  Sneerwell,  I  kiss  your  hand.  Mrs.  Candour,  I  don't 
believe  you  are  acquainted  with  my  nephew,  Sir  Benjamin  Back- 


222  THE  SCHOOL   FOR  SCANDAL. 

bite  ?     Egad,  ma'am,  he  has  a  pretty  wit,  and  is  a  pretty  poet,  too. 
Is  n't  he,  Lady  Sneerwell  ? 

Sir  Benj.    Oh,  fie,  uncle  ! 

Crab.  Nay,  egad  it 's  true ;  I  back  him  at  a  rebus  or  a  charade 
against  the  best  rhymer  in  the  kingdom.  —  Has  your  ladyship  heard 
the  epigram  he  wrote  last  week  on  Lady  Frizzle's  feather  catching 
fire? — Do,  Benjamin,  repeat  it,  or  the  charade  you  made  last  night 
extempore  at  Mrs.  Drowzie's  conversazione.  Come,  now ;  your  first 
is  the  name  of  a  fish,  your  second  a  great  naval  commander, 
and  

Sir  Benj.    Uncle,  now  —  pr'ythee 

Crab.  I  'faith,  ma'am,  't  would  surprise  you  to  hear  how  ready  he 
is  at  all  these  fine  sort  of  things. 

Lady  Sneer.  I  wonder,  Sir  Benjamin,  you  never  publish  anything. 
Sir  Benj.  To  say  truth,  ma'am, 'tis  very  vulgar  to  print:  and  as 
my  little  productions  are  mostly  satires  and  lampoons  on  particular 
people,  I  find  they  circulate  more  by  giving  copies  in  confidence  to 
the  friends  of  the  parties.  —  However,  I  have  some  love  elegies, 
which,  when  favored  with  this  lady's  smiles,  I  mean  to  give  the 
public.  {Pointing  to  MARIA. 

Crab.  [To  MARIA.]  'Fore  heaven,  ma'am,  they'll  immortalize 
you!  —  you  will  be  handed  down  to  posterity,  like  Petrarch's  Laura, 
or  Waller's  Sacharissa. 

Sir  Benj.  [To  MARIA.]  Yes,  madam,  I  think  you  will  like 
them,  when  you  shall  see  them  on  a  beautiful  quarto  page,  where 
a  neat  rivulet  of  text  shall  meander  through  a  meadow  of  mar- 
gin. —  'Fore  Gad  they  will  be  the  most  elegant  things  of  their 
kind! 

Crab.    But,  ladies,  that's  true  —  have  you  heard  the  news? 

Mrs.  Can.    What,  sir,  do  you  mean  the  report  of  


A    COMEDY.  223 

Crab.  No,  ma'am,  that's  not  it. — Miss  Nicely  is  going  to  be 
married  to  her  own  footman. 

Mrs.  Can.    Impossible. 

Crab.    Ask  Sir  Benjamin. 

Sir  Benj.  T  is  very  true,  ma'am  :  everything  is  fixed,  and  the 
wedding  liveries  bespoke. 

Crab.    Yes  —  and  they  do  say  there  were  pressing  reasons  for  it. 

Lady  Sneer.    Why,  I  have  neard  something  of  this  before. 

Mrs.  Can.  It  can't  be  —  and  I  wonder  anyone  should  believe  such 
a  story  of  so  prudent  a  lady  as  Miss  Nicely. 

Sir  Benj.  O  Lud !  ma'am,  that 's  the  very  reason  't  was  believed 
at  once.  She  has  always  been  so  cautious  and  so  reserved,  that 
everybody  was  sure  there  was  some  reason  for  it  at  bottom. 

Mrs.  Can.  Why,  to  be  sure,  a  tale  of  scandal  is  as  fatal  to  the 
credit  of  a  prudent  lady  of  her  stamp  as  a  fever  is  generally  to  those 
of  the  strongest  constitutions.  But  there  is  a  sort  of  puny,  sickly 
reputation,  that  is  always  ailing,  yet  will  outlive  the  robuster  charac- 
ters of  a  hundred  prudes. 

Sir  Benj.  True,  madam,  there  are  valetudinarians  in  reputation 
as  well  as  constitution,  who,  being  conscious  of  their  weak  part, 
avoid  the  least  breath  of  air,  and  supply  their  want  of  stamina  by 
care  and  circumspection. 

Mrs.  Can.  Well,  but  this  may  be  all  a  mistake.  You  know, 
Sir  Benjamin,  very  trifling  circumstances  often  give  rise  to  the 
most  injurious  tales. 

Crab.  That  they  do,  I  '11  be  sworn,  ma'am.  Did  you  ever  hear 
how  Miss  Piper  came  to  lose  her  lover  and  her  character  last 
summer  at  Tunbridge  ?  —  Sir  Benjamin,  you  remember  it  ? 

Sir  Benj.   Oh,  to  be  sure!  —  the  most  whimsical  circumstance. 

Lady  Sneer.    How  was  it,  pray  ? 


224  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

Crab.  Why,  one  evening,  at  Mrs.  Ponto's  assembly,  the  con- 
versation  happened  to  turn  on  the  breeding  Nova  Scotia  sheep  in 
this  country.  Says  a  young  lady  in  company,  I  have  known  in- 
stances of  it ;  for  Miss  Letitia  Piper,  a  first  cousin  of  mine,  had 
a  Nova  Scotia  sheep  that  produced  her  twins.  —  "  What !  "  cries  the 
Lady  Dowager  Dundizzy  (who  you  know  is  as  deaf  as  a  post), 
"has  Miss  Piper  had  twins?"  —  This  mistake,  as  you  may  imagine, 
threw  the  whole  company  into  a  fit  of  laughter.  However,  't  was 
the  next  morning  everywhere  reported,  and  in  a  few  days  believed 
by  the  whole  town,  that  Miss  Letitia  Piper  had  actually  been 
brought  to  bed  of  a  fine  boy  and  a  girl :  and  in  less  than  a  week 
there  were  some  people  who  could  name  the  father,  and  the  farm- 
house where  the  babies  were  put  to  nurse. 

Lady  Sneer.   Strange,  indeed  ! 

Crab.    Matter  of  fact,  I  assure  you.     O  Lud  !  Mr.  Surface,  pray 
is  it  true  that  your  uncle,  Sir  Oliver,  is  coming  home  ? 
Jos.  Surf.    Not  that  I  know  of,  indeed,  sir. 

Crab.  He  has  been  in  the  East  Indies  a  long  time.  You  can 
scarcely  remember  him,  I  believe? — Sad  comfort,  whenever  he  re- 
turns, to  hear  how  your  brother  has  gone  on ! 

Jos.  Surf.  Charles  has  been  imprudent,  sir,  to  be  sure;  but  I 
hope  no  busy  people  have  already  prejudiced  Sir  Oliver  against 
him.  He  may  reform. 

Sir  Benj.  To  be  sure  he  may :  for  my  part,  I  never  believed  him 
to  be  so  utterly  void  of  principle  as  people  say;  and,  though  he 
has  lost  all  his  friends,  I  am  told  nobody  is  better  spoken  of  by 
the  Jews. 

Crab.  That 's  true,  egad,  nephew.  If  the  Old  Jewry  was  a 
ward,  I  believe  Charles  would  be  an  alderman :  no  man  more 
popular  there,  'fore  Gad!  I  hear  he  pays  as  many  annuities  as 


A    COMEDY.  225 

the    Irish    tontine ;    and    that,    whenever    he    is    sick,    they    have 
prayers  for  the  recovery  of  his  health  in  all  the   synagogues. 

Sir  Benj.  Yet  no  man  lives  in  greater  splendor.  They  tell  me, 
when  he  entertains  his  friends  he  will  sit  down  to  dinner  with 
a  dozen  of  his  own  securities  ;  have  a  score  of  tradesmen  waiting 
in  the  ante-chamber,  and  an  officer  behind,  every  guest's  chair. 

Jos.  Surf.  This  may  be  entertainment  to  you,  gentlemen,  but 
you  pay  very  little  regard  to  the  feelings  of  a  brother. 

Mar.  [Aside.]  Their  malice  is  intolerable!  —  {.Aloud.]  Lady  Sneer- 
well,  I  must  wish  you  a  good  morning :  I  'm  not  very  well. 

[Exit  MARIA. 

Mrs.  Can.  O  dear  !    she  changes  color  very  much. 

Lady  Sneer.  Do,  Mrs.  Candour,  follow  her:  she  may  want  your 
assistance. 

Mrs.  Can.  That  I  will,  with  all  my  soul,  ma'am.  —  Poor  dear 
girl,  who  knows  what  her  situation  may  be  !  [Exit  MRS.  CANDOUR. 

Lady  Sneer.  'T  was  nothing  but  that  she  could  not  bear  to  hear 
Charles  reflected  on,  notwithstanding  their  difference. 

Sir  Benj.    The  young  lady's  penchant  is  obvious. 

Crab.  But  Benjamin,  you  must  not  give  up  the  pursuit  for  that : 
follow  her,  and  put  her  into  good  humor.  Repeat  her  some  of 
your  own  verses.  Come,  I'  11  assist  you. 

Sir  Benj.  Mr.  Surface,  I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  you ;  but  depend 
on 't  your  brother  is  utterly  undone. 

Crab.  O  Lud,  ay!  .undone  as  ever  man  was— -can't  raise  a 
guinea  !  — 

Sir  Benj.    And  everything  sold,  I  'm  told,  that  was  movable.  — 

Crab.  I  have  seen  one  that  was  at  his  house.  —  Not  a  thing 
left  but  some  empty  bottles  that  were  overlooked,  and  the  family 
pictures,  which  I  believe  are  framed  in  the  wainscots  — 


226  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

Sir  Benj.    And  I'm  very  sorry  also   to    hear   some   bad  stories 
against  him.  [Going. 

Crab.    Oh,  he  has  done  many  mean  things,  that's  certain. 

Sir  Benj.    But,  however,  as  he  's  your  brother [Going. 

Crab.    We  '11  tell  you  all  another  opportunity. 

\_Exeunt  CRABTREE  and  SIR  BENJAMIN. 

Lady  Sneer.  Ha !  ha !  't  is  very  hard  for  them  to  leave  a  sub- 
ject they  have  not  quite  run  down. 

Jos.  Surf.  And  I  believe  the  abuse  was  no  more  acceptable  to 
your  ladyship  than  Maria. 

Lady  Sneer.  I  doubt  her  affections  are  farther  engaged  than  we 
imagine.  But  the  family  are  to  be  here  this  evening,  so  you  may 
'as  well  dine  where  you  are,  and  we  shall  have  an  opportunity  of 
observing  farther ;  in  the  meantime  I  '11  go  and  plot  mischief,  and 
you  shall  study  sentiment.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.  — A  room  in  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE'S  House. 

I 

Enter  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE. 

Sir  Peter.  When  an  old  bachelor  marries  a  young  wife,  what 
is  he  to  expect  ?  T  is  now  six  months  since  Lady  Teazle  made 
me  the  happiest  of  men  —  and  I  have  been  the  most  miserable 
dog  ever  since !  We  tifted  a  little  going  to  church,  and  fairly  quar- 
relled before  the  bells  had  done  ringing.  I  was  more  than  once 
nearly  choked  with  gall  during  the  honeymoon,  and  had  lost  all 
comfort  in  life  before  my  friends  had  clone  wishing  me  joy. 
Yet  I  chose  with  caution  —  a  girl  bred  wholly  in  the  country,  \vho 
never  knew  luxury  beyond  one  silk  gown,  nor  dissipation  above 


A    COMEDY.  227 

the  annual  gala  of  a  race  ball.  Yet  she  now  plays  her  part  in 
all  the  extravagant  fopperies  of  fashion  and  the  town,  with  as 
ready  a  grace  as  if  she  never  had  seen  a  bush  or  a  grass-plot 
out  of  Grosvenor  Square !  I  am  sneered  at  by  all  my  acquaintance, 
and  paragraphed  in  the  newspapers.  She  dissipates  my  fortune, 
and  contradicts  all  my  humors ;  yet  the  worst  of  it  is,  I  doubt 
I  love  her,  or  I  should  never  bear  all  this.  However,  I  '11  never 
be  weak  enough  to  own  it. 

Enter  ROWLEY. 

Row.    Oh  !   Sir   Peter,  your   servant :   how  is    it   with  you,   sir  ? 

Sir  Peter.  Very  bad,  Master  Rowley,  very  bad.  I  meet  with 
nothing  but  crosses  and  vexations. 

Row.  What  can  have  happened  to  trouble  you  since  yester- 
day ? 

Sir  Peter.    A  good  question   to  a   married  man! 

Row.  Nay,  I  'm  sure,  Sir  Peter,  your  lady  can't  be  the  cause 
of  your  uneasiness. 

Sir  Peter.    Why,  has  anybody  told  you  she  was  dead  ? 

Row.  Come,  come,  Sir  Peter  you  love  her,  notwithstanding 
your  tempers  don't  exactly  agree. 

Sir  Peter.  But  the  fault  is  entirely  hers,  Master  Rowley.  I 
am,  myself,  the  sweetest-tempered  man  alive,  and  hate  a  teasing  tem- 
per ;  and  so  I  tell  her  a  hundred  times  a  day. 

Row.   Indeed ! 

Sir  Peter.  Ay  ;  and  what  is  very  extraordinary,  in  all  our  dis- 
putes she  is  always  in  the  wrong !  But  Lady  Sneerwell,  and  the 
set  she  meets  at  her  house,  encourage  the  perverseness  of  her  dis- 
position. —  Then,  to  complete  my  vexation,  Maria,  my  ward,  whom 
I  ought  to  have  the  power  of  a  father  over,  is  determined  to  turn 
rebel  too,  and  absolutely  refuses  the  man  whom  I  have  long  re- 


228  THE   SCHOOL   FOR  SCANDAL. 

solved  on  or  her  husband;  meaning,  I  suppose,- to  bestow  herself 
on  his  profligate  brother. 

Row.  You  know,  Sir  Peter,  I  have  always  taken  the  liberty 
to  differ  with  you  on  the  subject  of  these  two  young  gentlemen. 
I  only  wish  you  may  not  be  deceived  in  your  opinion  of  the  elder. 
For  Charles,  my  life  on 't !  he  will  retrieve  his  errors  yet.  Their 
worthy  father,  once  my  honored  master,  was,  at  his  years,  nearly 
as  wild  a  spark ;  yet,  when  he  died,  he  did  not  leave  a  more 
benevolent  heart  to  lament  his  loss. 

Sir  Peter.  You  are  wrong,  Master  Rowley.  On  their  father's 
death,  you  know,  I  acted  as  a  kind  of  guardian  to  them  both, 
till  their  uncle  Sir  Oliver's  liberality  gave  them  an  early  indepen- 
dence :  of  course,  no  person  could  have  more  opportunities  of 
judging  of  their  hearts,  and  I  was  never  mistaken  in  my  life. 
Joseph  is  indeed  a  model  of  the  young  men  of  the  age.  He  is 
a  man  of  sentiment,  and  acts  up  to  the  sentiments  he  professes  ; 
but,  for  the  other,  take  my  word  for 't,  if  he  had  any  grain  of 
virtue  by  descent,  he  has  dissipated  it  with  the  rest  of  his  inheri- 
tance. Ah !  my  old  friend,  Sir  Oliver,  will  be  deeply  mortified 
when  he  finds  how  part  of  his  bounty  has  been  misapplied. 

Row.  I  am  sorry  to  find  you  so  violent  against  the  young 
man,  because  this  may  be  the  most  critical  period  of  his  fortune. 
I  came  hither  with  news  that  will  surprise  you. 

Sir  Peter.    What  !  let  me  hear. 

Row.    Sir   Oliver  is  arrived,  and  at  this  moment  in  town. 

Sir  Peter.  How !  you  astonish  me  !  I  thought  you  did  not  ex- 
pect him  this  month. 

Row.    I  did  not ;  but  his  passage  has   been    remarkably   quick. 

Sir  Peter.  Egad,  I  shall  rejoice  to  see  my  old  friend.  'T  is 
fifteen  years  since  we  met. — We  have  had  many  a  day  together: 


A    COMEDY.  229 

—  but   does  he  still  enjoin  us  not  to  inform    his    nephews    of   his 
arrival  ? 

Row.  Most  strictly.  He  means,  before  it  is  known,  to  make 
some  trial  of  their  dispositions. 

Sir  Peter.    Ah  !    there    needs    no    art    to    discover   their  merits 

—  however  he  shall  have  his  way  ;  but,  pray,  does  he  know  I  am 
married  ? 

Row.    Yes,  and  will  soon  wish  you  joy. 

Sir  Peter.  What,  as  we  drink  health  to  a  friend  in  a  consumption ! 
Ah  !  Oliver  will  laugh  at  me.  We  used  to  rail  at  matrimony  to- 
gether, but  he  has  been  steady  to  his  text.  —  Well,  he  must  be  soon 
at  my  house,  though —  I  '11  instantly  give  orders  for  his  reception.  — 
But,  Master  Rowley,  don't  drop  a  word  that  Lady  Teazle  and  I  ever 
disagree. 

Row.    By  no  means. 

Sir  Peter.  For  I  should  never  be  able  to  stand  Noll's  jokes  ;  so 
I  '11  have  him  think,  Lord  forgive  me  !  that  we  are  a  very  happy 
couple. 

Roiv.  I  understand  you  :  —  but  then  you  must  be  very  careful  not 
to  differ  while  he  is  in  the  house  with  you. 

Sir  Peter.  Egad,  and  so  we  must  —  and  thit  's  impossible.  Ah ! 
Master  Rowley,  when  an  old  bachelor  marries  a  young  wife,  he 
deserves  —  no  —  the  crime  carries  its  punishment  along  with  it. 

\Exeunt. 


230  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

ACT    II. 

SCENE  I.  —  A  Room  in  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE'S  House. 
Enter  SIR  PETER  and  LADY  TEAZLE. 

Sir  Peter.    Lady  Teazle,  Lady  Teazle,  I  '11  not  bear  it ! 

Lady  Teas.  Sir  Peter,  Sir  Peter,  you  may  bear  it  or  not,  as  you 
please ;  but  I  ought  to  have  my  own  way  in  everything,  and  what 's 
more,  I  will  too.  What !  though  I  was  educated  in  the  country,  I 
know  very  well  that  women  of  fashion  in  London  are  accountable  to 
nobody  after  they  are  married. 

Sir  Peter.  Very  well,  ma'am,  very  well ;  —  so  a  husband  is  to 
have  no  influence,  no  authority  ? 

Lady  Teaz.  Authority  !  No,  to  be  sure: — if  you  want  authority 
over  me,  you  should  have  adopted  me,  and  not  married  me  :  I  am 
sure  you  were  old  enough. 

Sir  Peter.  Old  enough !  —  ay,  there  it  is.  Well,  well,  Lady 
Teazle,  though  my  life  may  be  made  unhappy  by  your  temper,  I  '11 
not  be  ruined  by  your  extravagance  ! 

Lady  Teas.  My  extravagance  !  I  'm  sure  I  'm  not  more  extrava- 
gant than"  a  woman  of  fashion  ought  to  be. 

Sir  Peter.  No,  no,  madam,  you  shall  throw  away  no  more  sums 
on  such  unmeaning  luxury.  'Slife !  to  spend  as  much  to  furnish 
your  dressing-room  with  flowers  in  winter  as  would  suffice  to  turn 
the  Pantheon  into  a  greenhouse,  and  give  a///V  champttre  at  Christ- 
mas. 

Lady  Teaz.  And  am  I  to  blame,  Sir  Peter,  because  flowers  are 
dear  in  cold  weather  ?  You  should  find  fault  with  the  climate,  and 


A    COMEDY.  231 

not  with  me.  For  my  part,  I  'm  sure  I  wish  it  was  spring  all  the 
year  round,  and  that  roses  grew  under  our  feet ! 

Sir  Peter.  Oons !  madam  —  if  you  had  heen  born  to  this,  I 
should  n't  wonder  at  your  talking  thus ;  but  you  forget  what  your 
situation  was  when  I  married  you. 

Lady  Teaz.  No,  no,  I  don't ;  't  was  a  very  disagreeable  one,  or  I 
should  never  have  married  you. 

Sir  Peter.  Yes,  yes,  madam,  you  were  then  in  somewhat  a 
humbler  style  —  the  daughter  of  a  plain  country  squire.  Recollect, 
Lady  Teazle,  when  I  saw  you  first  sitting  at  your  tambour,  in  a 
pretty  figured  linen  gown,  with  a  bunch  of  keys  at  your  side,  your 
hair  combed  smooth  over  a  roll,  and  your  apartment  hung  round  with 
fruits  in  worsted,  of  your  own  working. 

Lady  Teaz.  Oh,  yes  !  I  remember  it  very  well,  and  a  curious  life  I 
led.  —  My  daily  occupation  to  inspect  the  dairy,  superintend  the 
poultry,  make  extracts  from  the  family  receipt  book,  and  comb  my 
aunt  Deborah's  lapdog. 

Sir  Peter.    Yes,  yes,  ma'am,  't  was  so  indeed. 

Lady  Teaz.  And  then  you  know,  my  evening  amusements  !  To 
draw  patterns  for  ruffles,  which  I  had  not  materials  to  make  up ;  to 
play  Pope  Joan  with  the  curate  ;  to  read  a  sermon  to  my  aunt ;  or  to 
be  stuck  down  to  an  old  spinet  to  strum  my  father  to  sleep  after  a 
fox-chase. 

Sir  Peter.  I  am  glad  you  have  so  good  a  memory.  Yes  madam, 
these  were  the  recreations  I  took  you  from ;  but  now  you  must  have 
your  coach  —  vis-a-vis  —  and  three  powdered  footmen  before  your 
chair ;  and,  in  the  summer,  a  pair  of  white  cats  to  draw  you  to 
Kensington  Gardens.  No  recollection,  I  suppose,  when  you  were 
content  to  ride  double,  behind  the  butler,  on  a  docked  coach- 
horse. 


232  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

Lady  Teas.  No- — I  swear  I  never  did  that:  I  deny  the  butler 
and  the  coach-horse. 

Sir  Peter.  This,  madam,  was  your  situation  ;  and  what  have  I 
done  for  you  ?  I  have  made  you  a  woman  of  fashion,  of  fortune,  of 
rank  —  in  short,  I  have  made  you  my  wife. 

Lady  Teas.  Well,  then,  and  there  is  but  one  thing  more  you 
can  make  me  to  add  to  the  obligation,  that  is 

Sir  Peter.    My  widow,  I  suppose  ? 

Lady  Teas.    Hem  !  hem  ! 

Sir  Peter.  I  thank  you,  madam — but  don't  flatter  yourself  ;  for, 
though  your  ill  conduct  may  disturb  my  peace  of  mind,  it  shall 
never  break  my  heart,  I  promise  you :  however,  I  am  equally 
obliged  to  you  for  the  hint. 

Lady  Teas.  Then  why  will  you  endeavor  to  make  yourself  so 
disagreeable  to  me,  and  thwart  me  in  every  little  elegant  expense  ? 

Sir  Peter.  'Slife,  madam,  I  say,  had  you  any  of  these  little 
elegant  expenses  when  you  married  me? 

Lady  Teas.  Lud,  Sir  Peter  !  would  you  have  me  be  out  of  the 
fashion  ? 

Sir  Peter.  The  fashion,  indeed  !  what  had  you  to  do  with  the 
fashion  before  you  married  me  ? 

Lady  Teas.  For  my  part,  I  should  think  you  would  like  to 
have  your  wife  thought  a  woman  of  taste. 

Sir  Peter.  Ay  —  there  again  — -.  taste  !  Zounds  !  madam,  you 
had  no  taste  when  you  married  me ! 

Lady  Teas.  That 's  very  true,  indeed,  Sir  Peter !  and  after 
having  married  you,  I  should  never  pretend  to  taste  again,  I 
allow.  But  now,  Sir  Peter,  since  we  have  finished  our  daily 
jangle,  I  presume  I  may  go  to  my  engagement  at  Lady  Sneer- 
well's.  •• 


A    COMEDY.  233 

Sir  Peter.  Ay,  there's  another  precious  circumstance — a  charm- 
ing set  of  acquaintance  you  have  made  there! 

Lady  Teas.  Nay,  Sir  Peter,  they  are  all  people  of  rank  and 
fortune,  and  remarkable  tenacious  of  reputation. 

Sir  Peter.  Yes,  egad,  they  are  tenacious  of  reputation  with  a 
vengeance ;  for  they  don't  choose  anybody  should  have  a  character 
but  themselves !  Such  a  crew  !  Ah  !  many  a  wretch  has  rid  on 
a  hurdle  who  has  done  less  mischief  than  these  utterers  of  forged 
tales,  coiners  of  scandal,  and  clippers  of  reputation. 

Lady  Teas.    What,  would  you  restrain  the  freedom   of   speech  ? 

Sir  Peter.  Ah!  they  have  made  you  just  as  bad  as  any  one  of 
the  society. 

Lady  Teas.    Why,  I  believe  I  do  bear  a  part  with  a  tolerable  grace. 

Sir  Peter.    Grace  indeed  ! 

Lady  Teas.  But  I  vow  I  bear  no  malice  against  the  people  I 
abuse. — When  I  say  an  ill-natured  thing,  'tis  out  of  pure  good 
humor  ;  and  I  take  it  for  granted  they  deal  exactly  in  the  same 
manner  with  me.  But,  Sir  Peter,  you  know  you  promised  to  come 
to  Lady  Sneerwell's  too. 

Sir  Peter.  Well,  well,  I  '11  call  in,  just  to  look  after  my  own 
character. 

Lady  Teas.  Then,  indeed,  you  must  make  haste  after  me,  or 
you  '11  be  too  late.  So  good-by  to  ye.  [Exit  LADY  TEAZLE. 

Sir  Peter.  So  —  I  have  gained  much  by  my  intended  expostu- 
lation !  Yet  with  what  a  charming  air  she  contradicts  everything 
I  say,  and  how  pleasingly  she  shows  her  contempt  for  my  author- 
ity !  Well,  though  I  can 't  make  her  love  me,  there  is  great 
satisfaction  in  quarrelling  with  her ;  and  I  think  she  never  appears 
to  such  advantage  as  when  she  is  doing  everything  in  her  power 
to  plague  me.  [Exit. 


234  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

SCENE  II. — A  room  in  LADY  SNEERWELL'S  House. 

LADY  SNEERVVELL,  MRS.  CANDOUR,  CRABTREE,  SIR  BENJAMIN  BACK- 
BITE, and  JOSEPH  SURFACE,  discovered. 

Lady  Sneer.    Nay,  positively,  we  will  hear  it. 

Jos.  Surf.   Yes,  yes,  the  epigram,  by  all  means. 

Sir  Benj.    O  plague  on  't,  uncle !  't  is  mere  nonsense. 

Crab.    No,  no ;  'fore  Gad,  very  clever  for  an  extempore ! 

Sir  Benj.  But,  ladies,  you  should  be  acquainted  with  the  cir- 
cumstance. You  must  know  that  one  day  last  week,  as  Lady 
Betty  Curricle  was  taking  the  dust  in  Hyde  Park,  in  a  sort  of 
duodecimo  phaeton,  she  desired  me  to  write  some  verses  on  her 
ponies ;  upon  which,  I  took  out  my  pocket-book,  and  in  one  mo- 
ment produced  the  following:  — 

Sure  never  was  seen  two  such  beautiful  ponies ; 
Other  horses  are  clowns,  but  these  macaronies  : 
To  give  them  this  title  I  'm  sure  can  't  be  wrong, 
Their  legs  are  so  slim  and  their  tails  are  so  long. 

Crab.  There,  ladies,  done  in  the  smack  of  a  whip,  and  on 
horseback  too. 

Jos.  Surf.    A    very   Phoebus,    mounted — indeed,    Sir    Benjamin! 

Sir  Benj.   Oh  dear,  sir!  trifles  —  trifles. 

Enter  LADY  TEAZLE  and  MARIA. 

Mrs.  Can.    I  must  have  a  copy. 

Lady  Sneer.    Lady  Teazle,  I  hope  we  shall  see  Sir  Peter  ? 

Lady  Teas.    I    believe   he  '11    wait   on   your    ladyship    presently. 

Lady  Sneer.  Maria,  my  love,  you  look  grave.  Come,  you  shall 
sit  down  to  piquet  with  Mr.  Surface. 

Mar.  I  take  very  little  pleasure  in  cards  —  however,  I  '11  do 
as  your  ladyship  pleases. 


A    COMEDY.  235 

Lady  Teas;.  I  am  surprised  Mr.  Surface  should  sit  down  with 
her;  I  thought  he  would  have  embraced  this  opportunity  of  speaking 
to  me  before  Sir  Peter  came.  \Aside. 

Mrs.  Can.  Now,  I  '11  die ;  but  you  are  so  scandalous,  I  '11  forswear 
your  society. 

Lady  Teaz.    What 's  the  matter,  Mrs.  Candour  ? 

Mrs.  Can.  They  '11  not  allow  our  friend  Miss  Vermillion  to  be 
handsome. 

Lady  Sneer.    Oh,  surely  she  is  a  pretty  woman. 

Crab.    I  am  very  glad  you  think  so,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Can.    She  has  a  charming  fresh  color. 

Lady  Teaz.    Yes,  when  it  is  fresh  put  on. 

Mrs.  Can.  O,  fie !  I  '11  swear  her  color  is  natural :  I  have  seen  it 
come  and  go ! 

Lady  Teaz.  I  dare  swear  you  have,  ma'am  :  it  goes  off  at  night, 
and  comes  again  in  the  morning. 

Sir  Benj.  True,  ma'am,  it  not  only  comes  and  goes  ;  but,  what 's 
more,  egad,  her  maid  can  fetch  and  carry  it ! 

Mrs.  Can.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  how  I  hate  to  hear  you  talk  so  !  But 
surely,  now,  her  sister  is,  or  was,  very  handsome. 

Crab.  Who  ?  Mrs.  Evergreen  ?  O  Lord  !  she 's  six-and-fifty  if 
she's  an  hour! 

Mrs.  Can.  Now  positively  you  wrong  her ;  fifty-two  or  fifty-three 
is  the  utmost  —  and  I  don't  think  she  looks  more. 

Sir  Bcnj.  Ah  !  there 's  no  judging  by  her  looks,  unless  one  could 
see  her  face. 

Lady  Sneer.  Well,  well,  if  Mrs.  Evergreen  does  take  some  pains 
to  repair  the  ravages  of  time,  you  must  allow  she  effects  it  with 
great  ingenuity ;  and  surely  that 's  better  than  the  careless  manner 
in  which  the  widow  Ochre  caulks  her  wrinkles. 


236  THE  SCHOOL  FCR  SCANDAL. 

Sir  Benj.  Nay,  now,  Lady  Sneerwell,  you  are  severe  upon  the 
widow.  Come,  come,  'tis  not  that  she  paints  so  ill  —  but,  when  she 
has  finished  her  face,  she  joins  it  on  so  badly  to  her  neck,  that 
she  looks  like  a  mended  statue,  in  which  the  connoisseur  may  see 
at  once  that  the  head  is  modern,  though  the  trunk  's  antique. 

Crab.    Ha !  ha !  ha !    Well  said,  nephew. 

Mrs.  Can.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Well,  you  make  me  laugh ;  but  I  vow 
I  hate  you  for  it.  — -  What  do  you  think  of  Miss  Simper  ? 

Sir  Benj.    Why,  she  has  very  pretty  teeth. 

Lady  Teas.  Yes ;  and  on  that  account,  when  she  is  neither 
speaking  nor  laughing  (which  very  seldom  happens),  she  never  abso- 
lutely shuts  her  mouth,  but  leaves  it  always  on  a-jar,  as  it  were  — 
thus.  \_Shows  Jier  tcctli. 

Mrs.  Can.    How  can  you  be  so  ill-natured  ? 

Lady  Teas.  Nay,  I  allow  even  that 's  better  than  the  pains  Mrs. 
Prim  takes  to  conceal  her  losses  in  front.  She  draws  her  mouth 
till  it  positively  resembles  the  aperture  of  a  poor's-box,  and  all  her 
words  appear  to  slide  out  edgewise,  as  it  were  —  thus  :  How  do 
yon  do,  madam  ?  Yes,  madam.  [Mimics. 

Lady  Sneer.  Very  well,  Lady  Teazle ;  I  see  you  can  be  a  little 
severe. 

Lady  Tcaz.  In  defence  of  a  friend  it  is  but  justice.  —  But  here 
comes  Sir  Peter  to  spoil  our  pleasantry. 

Enter  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE. 

Sir  Peter.  Ladies,  your  most  obedient.  —  [Aside.']  Mercy  on  me, 
here  is  the  whole  set !  a  character  dead  at  every  word,  I  suppose. 

Mrs.  Can.  I  am  rejoiced  you  are  come,  Sir  Peter.  They  have 
been  so  censorious  —  and  Lady  Teazle  as  bad  as  any  one. 

Sir  Peter.  That  must  be  very  distressing  to  yon,  indeed,  Mrs. 
Candour. 


A    COMEDY.  237 

Mrs.  Can.  Oh,  they  will  allow  good  qualities  to  nobody ;  not 
even  good  nature  to  our  friend,  Mrs.  Pursy. 

Lady  Teas.  What,  the  fat  dowager  who  was  at  Mrs.  Quadrille's 
last  night  ? 

Mrs.  Can.  Nay,  her  bulk  is  her  misfortune ;  and,  when  she  takes 
so  much  pains  to  get  rid  of  it,  you  ought  not  to  reflect  on  her. 

Lady  Sneer.    That 's  very  true,  indeed. 

Lady  Teaz.  Yes,  I  know  she  almost  lives  on  acids  and  small 
whey ;  laces  herself  by  pulleys ;  and  often,  in  the  hottest  noon  in 
summer,  you  may  see  her  on  a  little  squat  pony,  with  her  hair 
plaited  up  behind  like  a  drummer's  and  puffing  round  the  Ring  on 
a  full  trot. 

Mrs.  Can.    I  thank  you,  Lady  Teazle,  for  defending  her. 

Sir  Peter.    Yes,  a  good  defence,  truly. 

Mrs.  Can.    Truly,  Lady  Teazle  is  as  censorious  as  Miss  Sallow. 

Crab.  Yes,  and  she  is  a  curious  being  to  pretend  to  be  censorious 
—  an  awkward  gawky,  without  any  one  good  point  under  heaven. 

Mrs.  Can.  Positively  you  shall  not  be  so  very  severe.  Miss  Sal- 
low is  a  near  relation  of  mine  by  marriage,  and,  as  for  her  person, 
great  allowance  is  to  be  made ;  for,  let  me  tell  you,  a  woman  labors 
under  many  disadvantages  who  tries  to  pass  for  a  girl  of  six-and- 
thirty. 

Lady  Sneer.  Though,  surely,  she  is  handsome  still  —  and  for  the 
weakness  in  her  eyes,  considering  how  much  she  reads  by  candle- 
light, it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at. 

Mrs.  Can.  True,  and  then  as  to  her  manner;  upon  my  word,  I 
think  it  is  particularly  graceful,  considering  she  never  had  the  least 
education  :  for  you  know  her  mother  was  a  Welsh  milliner,  and  her 
father  a  sugar-baker  at  Bristol. 

Sir Benj.    Ah  !  you  are  both  of  you  too  good-natured! 


238  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

Sir  Peter.  Yes,  damned  good-natured  !  This  their  own  relation  ! 
mercy  on  me  !  [Aside. 

Mrs.  Can.  For  my  part,  I  own  I  cannot  bear  to  hear  a  friend  ill 
spoken  of. 

Sir  Peter.    No,  to  be  sure  ! 

Sir  Benj.  Oh  !  you  are  of  a  moral  turn.  Mrs.  Candour  and  I  can 
sit  for  an  hour  and  hear  Lady  Stucco  talk  sentiment. 

Lady  Teas.  Nay,  I  vow  Lady  Stucco  is  very  well  with  the 
dessert  after  dinner;  for  she's  just  like  the  French  fruit  one  cracks 
for  mottoes  —  made  up  of  paint  and  proverb. 

Mrs.  Can.  Well,  I  will  never  join  in  ridiculing  a  friend  ;  and  so 
I  constantly  tell  my  cousin  Ogle,  and  you  all  know  what  pretensions 
she  has  to  be  critical  on  beauty. 

Crab.  Oh,  to  be  sure !  she  has  herself  the  oddest  countenance 
that  ever  was  seen  ;  't  is  a  collection  of  features  from  all  the  different 
countries  of  the  globe. 

Sir  Benj.    So  she  has,  indeed  —  an  Irish  front 

Crab.    Caledonian  locks 

Sir  Benj.    Dutch  nose 

Crab.    Austrian  lips 

Sir  Benj.    Complexion  of  a  Spaniard 

Crab.    And  teeth  a  la  Chinoise 

Sir  Benj.  In  short,  her  face  resembles  a  table  d'hdte  at  Spa  — 
where  no  two  guests  are  of  a  nation 

Crab.  Or  a  congress  at  the  close  of  a  general  war  —  wherein  all 
the  members,  even  to  her  eyes,  appear  to  have  a  different  interest, 
and  her  nose  and  chin  are  the  only  parties  likely  to  join  issue. 

Mrs.  Can.    Ha  !  ha  !  ha ! 

Sir  Peter.  Mercy'  on  my  life  !  —  a  person  they  dine  with  twice  a 
week !  [Aside. 


A    COMEDY.  239 

Lady  Sneer.    Go,  go  ;  you  are  a  couple  of  provoking  toads. 

Mrs.  Can.  Nay,  but  I  vow  you  shall  not  carry  the  laugh  off  so  — 
for  give  me  leave  to  say  that  Mrs.  Ogle 

Sir  Peter.  Madam,  madam,  I  beg  your  pardon  —  there  's  no  stop- 
ping these  good  gentlemen's  tongues.  But  when  I  tell  you,  Mrs. 
Candour,  that  the  lady  they  are  abusing  is  a  particular  friend  of 
mine,  I  hope  you  '11  not  take  her  part. 

Lady  Sneer.  Ha  !  ha !  ha !  well  said,  Sir  Peter !  but  you  are  a 
cruel  creature — too  phlegmatic  yourself  for  a  jest,  and  too  peevish 
to  allow  wit  in  others. 

Sir  Peter.  Ah,  madam,  true  wit  is  more  nearly  allied  to  good- 
nature than  your  ladyship  is  aware  of. 

Lady  Teas.  True,  Sir  Peter :  I  believe  they  are  so  near  akin  that 
they  can  never  be  united. 

Sir  Benj.  Or  rather,  madam,  suppose  them  man  and  wife,  because 
one  seldom  sees  them  together. 

Lady  Teas.  But  Sir  Peter  is  such  an  enemy  to  scandal,  I  believe 
he  would  have  it  put  down  by  parliament. 

Sir  Peter.  'Fore  heaven,  madam,  if  they  were  to  consider  the 
sporting  with  reputation  of  as  much  importance  as  poaching  on 
manors,  and  pass  an  act  for  the  preservation  of  fame,  as  well  as 
game,  I  believe  many  would  thank  them  for  the  bill. 

Lady  Sneer.  O  Lud !  Sir  Peter ;  would  you  deprive  us  of  our 
privileges  ? 

Sir  Peter.  Ay,  madam,  and  then  no  person  should  be  permitted 
to  kill  characters  and  run  down  reputations,  but  qualified  old  maids 
and  disappointed  widows. 

Lady  Sneer.    Go,  you  monster! 

Mrs.  Can.  But,  surely,  you  would  not  be  quite  so  severe  on  those 
who  only  report  what  they  hear  ? 


240  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

Sir  Peter.  Yes,  madam,  I  would  have  law  merchant  for  them 
too ;  and  in  all  cases  of  slander  currency,  whenever  the  drawer  of 
the  lie  was  not  to  be  found,  the  injured  party  should  have  a  right 
to  come  on  any  of  the  indorsers. 

Crab.  Well,  for  my  part,  I  believe  there  never  was  a  scandalous 
tale  without  some  foundation. 

Sir  Peter.  Oh,  nine  out  of  ten  of  the  malicious  inventions  are 
founded  on  some  ridiculous  misrepresentation. 

Lady  Sneer.  Come,  ladies,  shall  we  sit  down  to  cards  in  the  next 
room  ? 

Enter  SERVANT,  who  whispers  SIR  PETER. 

Sir  Peter.  I  '11  be  with  them  directly.  —  [Exit  SERVANT.]  I  '11  get 
away  unperceived.  [Aside. 

Lady  Sneer.    Sir  Peter,  you  are  not  going  to  leave  us  ? 

Sir  Peter.  Your  ladyship  must  excuse  me  ;  I  'm  called  away  by 
particular  business.  But  I  leave  my  character  behind  me. 

[Exit  SIR  PETER. 

Sir  Bcnj.  Well  —  certainly,  Lady  Teazle,  that  lord  of  yours  is  a 
strange  being :  I  could  tell  you  some  stories  of  him  would  make  you 
laugh  heartily  if  he  were  not  your  husband. 

Lady  Tcaz.   Oh,  pray  don't  mind  that ;  come,  do  let 's  hear  them. 
[Exeunt  all  but  JOSEPH  SURFACE  and  MARIA. 
Jos.  Surf.    Maria,  I  see  you  have  no  satisfaction  in  this  society. 

Mar.  How  is  it  possible  I  should  ?  —  If  to  raise  malicious  smiles 
at  the  infirmities  or  misfortunes  of  those  who  have  never  injured  us 
be  the  province  of  wit  or  humor,  Heaven  grant  me  a  double  portion 
of  dullness  ! 

Jos.  Surf.  Yet  they  appear  more  ill-natured  than  they  are  ;  they 
have  no  malice  at  heart. 

Mar.    Then  is  their  conduct  still  more  contemptible ;  for,  in  my 


A    COMEDY.  241 

opinion,  nothing  could  excuse  the  intemperance  of  their  tongues 
but  a  natural  and  uncontrollable  bitterness  of  mind. 

Jos.  Surf.  Undoubtedly,  madam  ;  and  it  has  always  been  a  sen- 
timent of  mine,  that  to  propagate  a  malicious  truth  wantonly  is  more 
despicable  than  to  falsify  from  revenge.  But  can  you,  Maria,  feel 
thus  for  others,  and  be  unkind  to  me  alone  ?  Is  hope  to  be  denied 
the  tenderest  passion  ? 

Mar.    Why  will  you  distress  me  by  renewing  this  subject  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  Ah,  Maria  !  you  would  not  treat  me  thus,  and  oppose 
your  guardian,  Sir  Peter's  will,  but  that  I  see  that  profligate  Charles 
is  still  a  favored  rival ! 

Mar.  Ungenerously  urged !  But,  whatever  my  sentiments  are 
for  that  unfortunate  young  man,  be  assured  I  shall  not  feel  more 
bound  to  give  him  up,  because  his  distresses  have  lost  him  the 
regard  even  of  a  brother. 

Jos.  Surf.    Nay,  but,  Maria,  do  not  leave  me  with  a  frown :  by  all 

that 's  honest,  I  swear [Kneels. 

Re-Enter  LADY  TEAZLE  behind. 

[Aside.]  Gad's  life,  here 's  Lady  Teazle.  —  [Aloud  to  MARIA.]  You 
must  not  —  no,  you  shall  not — for,  though  I  have  the  greatest 
regard  for  Lady  Teazle  

Mar.    Lady  Teazle ! 

Jos.  Surf.    Yet  were  Sir  Peter  to  suspect 

Lady  Tcaz.  [Coming-  forward^  What  is  this,  pray  ?  Does  he 
take  her  for  me  ?  —  Child,  you  are  wanted  in  the  next  room.  —  [Exit 
MARIA.]  What  is  all  this,  pray  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  Oh,  the  most  unlucky  circumstance  in  nature  !  Maria 
has  somehow  suspected  the  tender  concern  I  have  for  your  happi- 
ness, and  threatened  to  acquaint  Sir  Peter  with  her  suspicions,  and  I 
was  just  endeavoring  to  reason  with  her  when  you  came  in. 


242  THE  SCHOOL   FOR  SCANDAL. 

Lady  Teas.  Indeed!  but  you  seemed  to  adopt  a  very  tender 
mode  of  reasoning  —  do  you  usually  argue  on  your  knees? 

Jos.  Surf.  Oh,  she  's  a  child,  and  I  thought  a  little  bombast 

But,  Lady  Teazle,  when  are  you  to  give  me  your  judgment  on  my 
library,  as  you  promised  ? 

Lady  Teaz.  No,  no ;  I  begin  to  think  it  would  be  imprudent,  and 
you  know  I  admit  you  as  a  lover  no  farther  than  fashion  requires. 

Jos.  Surf.  True  —  a  mere  Platonic  cicisbeo,  —  what  every  wife 
is  entitled  to. 

Lady  Teas.  Certainly,  one  must  not  be  out  of  the  fashion.  — 
However,  I  have  so  many  of  my  country  prejudices  left,  that,  though 
Sir  Peter's  ill-humor  may  vex  me  ever  so,  it  never  shall  provoke  me 
to 

Jos.  Surf.  The  only  revenge  in  your  power.  — Well,  I  applaud 
your  moderation. 

Lady  Teas.  Go  —  you  are  an  insinuating  wretch!  But  we  shall 
be  missed  —  let  us  join  the  company. 

Jos.  Surf.    But  we  had  best  not  return  together. 

Lady  Teas.  Well,  don't  stay ;  for  Maria  shan't  come  to  hear  any 
more  of  your  reasoning,  I  promise  you.  [Exit. 

Jos.  Surf.  A  curious  dilemma,  truly,  my  politics  have  run  me  into ! 
I  wanted,  at  first,  only  to  ingratiate  myself  with  Lady  Teazle,  that 
she  might  not  be  my  enemy  with  Maria ;  and  I  have,  I  don't  know 
how,  become  her  serious  lover.  Sincerely  I  begin  to  wish  I  had 
never  made  such  a  point  of  gaining  so  very  good  a  character,  for 
it  has  led  me  into  so  many  cursed  rogueries  that  I  doubt  I  shall  be 
exposed  at  last.  [Exit. 


A    COMEDY.  243 

SCENE  III.  — A  Room  in  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE'S  House. 
Enter  SIR  OLIVER  SURFACE  and  ROWLEY. 

Sir  Oliv.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  so  my  old  friend  is  married,  hey?  —  a 
young  wife  out  of  the  country.  Ha  !  ha !  ha !  that  he  should  have 
stood  bluff  to  old  bachelor  so  long,  and  sink  into  a  husband  at 
last! 

Row.  But  you  must  not  rally  him  on  the  subject,  Sir  Oliver ;  't  is 
a  tender  point,  I  assure  you,  though  he  has  been  married  only  seven 
months. 

Sir  Oliv.  Then  he  has  been  just  half  a  year  on  the  stool  of 
repentance  !  —  Poor  Peter !  But  you  say  he  has  entirely  given  up 
Charles  —  never  sees  him,  hey? 

Row.  His  prejudice  against  him  is  astonishing,  and  I  am  sure 
greatly  increased  by  a  jealousy  of  him  with  Lady  Teazle,  which  he 
has  industriously  been  led  into  by  a  scandalous  society  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, who  have  contributed  not  a  little  to  Charles's  ill  name. 
Whereas,  the  truth  is,  I  believe,  if  the  lady  is  partial  to  either  of 
them,  his  brother  is  the  favorite. 

Sir  Oliv.  Ay,  I  know  there  is  a  set  of  malicious,  prating,  prudent 
gossips,  both  male  and  female,  who  murder  characters  to  kill  time, 
and  will  rob  a  young  fellow  of  his  good  name  before  he  has  years  to 
know  the  value  of  it.  —  But  I  am  not  to  be  prejudiced  against  my 
nephew  by  such,  I  promise  you  !  —  No,  no  ;  if  Charles  has  done 
nothing  false  or  mean,  I  shall  compound  for  his  extravagance. 

Row.  Then,  my  life  on  't,  you  will  reclaim  him.  —  Ah,  sir,  it  gives 
me  new  life  to  find  that  your  heart  is  not  turned  against  him,  and 
that  the  son  of  my  good  old  master  has  one  friend,  however,  left. 

Sir  Oliv.    What !  shall  I  forget,  Master  Rowley,  when  I  was  at 


244  THE  SCHOOL   FOR  SCANDAL. 

his  years  myself  ?  Egad,  my  brother  and  I  were  neither  of  us  very 
prudent  youths  ;  and  yet,  I  believe,  you  have  not  seen  many  better 
men  than  your  old  master  was  ? 

Row.  Sir,  'tis  this  reflection  gives  me  assurance  that  Charles 
may  yet  be  a  credit  to  his  family.  —  But  here  comes  Sir  Peter  ? 

Sir  Oliv.  Egad,  so  he  does  !  Mercy  on  me !  he 's  greatly  altered, 
and  seems  to  have  a  settled  married  look !  One  may  read  husband 
in  his  face  at  this  distance ! 

Enter  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE. 

Sir  Peter.  Ha!  Sir  Oliver  —  my  old  friend!  Welcome  to  Eng- 
land a  thousand  times! 

Sir  Oliv.  Thank  you,  thank  you,  Sir  Peter !  and  i'  faith  I  am  glad 
to  find  you  well,  believe  me ! 

Sir  Peter.  Oh !  't  is  a  long  time  since  we  met  —  fifteen  years,  I 
doubt,  Sir  Oliver,  and  many  a  cross  accident  in  the  time. 

Sir  Oliv.  Ay,  I  have  had  my  share.  But,  what !  I  find  you  are 
married,  hey,  my  old  boy  ?  Well,  well,  it  can't  be  helped  ;  and  so  — 
I  wish  you  joy  with  all  my  heart ! 

Sir  Peter.  Thank  you,  thank  you,  Sir  Oliver.  —  Yes,  I  have 
entered  into  —  the  happy  state  ;  —  but  we  '11  not  talk  of  that  now. 

Sir  Oliv.  True,  true,  Sir  Peter ;  old  friends  should  not  begin  on 
grievances  at  first  meeting.  No,  no,  no 

Row.    \Aside  to  SIR  OLIVER.]    Take  care,  pray,  sir.  — 

Sir  Oliv.    Well,  so  one  of  my  nephews  is  a  wild  rogue,  hey  ? 

Sir  Peter.  Wild !  Ah  !  my  old  friend,  I  grieve  for  your  disap- 
pointment there ;  he 's  a  lost  young  man,  indeed.  However,  his 
brother  will  make  you  amends  ;  Joseph  is,  indeed,  what  a  youth 
should  be  —  everybody  in  the  world  speaks  well  of  him. 

Sir  Oliv.  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it ;  he  has  too  good  a  character  to 
be  an  honest  fellow.  Everybody  speaks  well  of  him  !  Pshaw  !  then 


A    COMEDY.  245 

he  has  bowed  as  low  to  knaves  and  fools  as  to  the  honest  dignity  of 
genius  and  virtue. 

Sir  Peter.  What,  Sir  Oliver  !  do  you  blame  him  for  not  making 
enemies  ? 

Sir  Oliv.   Yes,  if  he  has  merit  enough  to  deserve  them. 

Sir  Peter.  Well,  well,  you  '11  be  convinced  when  you  know  him. 
'T  is  edification  to  hear  him  converse ;  he  professes  the  noblest  sen- 
timents. 

Sir  Oliv.  Oh,  plague  of  his  sentiments  !  If  he  salutes  me  with  a 
scrap  of  morality  in  his  mouth,  I  shall  be  sick  directly.  But,  how- 
ever, don't  mistake  me,  Sir  Peter ;  I  don't  mean  to  defend  Charles's 
errors  :  but,  before  I  form  my  judgment  of  either  of  them,  I  intend 
to  make  a  trial  of  their  hearts  ;  and  my  friend  Rowley  and  I  have 
planned  something  for  the  purpose. 

Row.    And  Sir  Peter  shall  own  for  once  he  has  been  mistaken. 

Sir  Peter.    Oh,  my  life  on  Joseph's  honor  ! 

Sir  Oliv.  Well  —  come,  give  us  a  bottle  of  good  wine,  and  we'll 
drink  the  lads'  health,  and  tell  you  our  scheme. 

Sir  Peter.    Allans,  then! 

Sir  Oliv.  And  don't,  Sir  Peter,  be  so  severe  against  your  old 
friend's  son.  Oclds  my  life  !  I  am  not  sorry  that  he  has  run  out 
of  the  course  a  little  :  for  my  part,  I  hate  to  see  prudence  cling- 
ing to  the  green  suckers  of  youth ;  't  is  like  ivy  round  a  sapling, 
and  spoils  the  growth  of  the  tree.  {Exeunt. 


246  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. —  A  Room  in  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE'S  House. 
Enter  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE,  SIR  OLIVER  SURFACE,  and  ROWLEY. 

Sir  Peter.  Well,  then  we  will  see  this  fellow  first,  and  have 
our  wine  afterwards. —  But  how  is  this,  Master  Rowley  ?  I  don't 
see  the  jet  of  your  scheme. 

Row.  Why,  sir,  this  Mr.  Stanley,  whom  I  was  speaking  of, 
is  nearly  related  to  them  by  their  mother.  He  was  once  a  mer- 
chant in  Dublin,  but  has  been  ruined  by  a  series  of  undeserved 
misfortunes.  He  has  applied,  by  letter,  both  to  Mr.  Surface  and 
Charles :  from  the  former  he  has  received  nothing  but  evasive 
promises  of  future  service,  while  Charles  has  done  all  that  his 
extravagance  has  left  him  power  to  do ;  and  he  is,  at  this  time, 
endeavoring  to  raise  a  sum  of  money,  part  of  which,  in  the 
midst  of  his  own  distresses,  I  know  he  intends  for  the  service 
of  poor  Stanley. 

Sir  Oliv.   Ah !  he  is  my  brother's  son. 

Sir  Peter.   Well,  but  how  is  Sir  Oliver  personally  to 

Row.  Why,  sir,  I  will  inform  Charles  and  his  brother,  that 
Stanley  has  obtained  permission  to  apply  personally  to  his  friends; 
and,  as  they  have  neither  of  them  ever  seen  him,  let  Sir  Oliver 
assume  his  character,  and  he  will  have  a  fair  opportunity  of  judg- 
ing, at  least,  of  the  benevolence  of  their  dispositions :  and  believe 
me,  sir,  you  will  find  in  the  youngest  brother  one  who,  in  the 


A    COMEDY.  247 

midst  of  folly  and  dissipation,   has  still  as  our  immortal  bard  ex- 
presses it, — 

'•  a  heart  to  pity,  and  a  hand, 
Open  as  day,  for  melting  charity." 

Sir  Peter.  Pshaw !  What  signifies  his  having  an  open  hand  or 
purse  either,  when  he  has  nothing  left  to  give  ?  Well,  well, — 
make  the  trial,  if  you  please.  But  where  is  the  fellow  whom 
you  brought  for  Sir  Oliver  to  examine,  relative  to  Charles's  affairs  ? 

Row.  Below,  waiting  his  commands,  and  no  one  can  give  him 
better  intelligence. —  This,  Sir  Oliver,  is  a  friendly  Jew,  who,  to 
do  him  justice,  has  done  everything  in  his  power  to  bring  your 
nephew  to  a  proper  sense  of  his  extravagance. 

Sir  Peter.    Pray  let  us  have  him   in. 

Roiv.    Desire  Mr.  Moses  to  walk  up  stairs.        [Apart  to  SERVANT. 

Sir  Peter.  But,  pray,  why  should  you  suppose  he  will  speak 
the  truth? 

Row.  Oh,  I  have  convinced  him  that  he  has  no  chance  of 
recovering  certain  sums  advanced  to  Charles  but  through  the 
bounty  of  Sir  Oliver,  who  he  knows  is  arrived ;  so  that  you 
may  depend  on  his  fidelity  to  his  own  interests.  I  have  also  an- 
other evidence  in  my  power,  one  Snake,  whom  I  have  detected 
in  a  matter  little  short  of  forgery,  and  shall  shortly  produce  to 
remove  some  of  your  prejudices,  Sir  Peter,  relative  to  Charles 
and  Lady  Teazle. 

Sir  Peter.    I  have  heard. too  much  on  that  subject. 

Row.    Here  comes  the  honest  Israelite. 

Enter  MOSES. 
—  This  is  Sir  Oliver. 

Sir  Oliv.  Sir,  I  understand  you  have  lately  had  great  dealings 
with  my  nephew  Charles. 


248  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

Mos.  Yes,  Sir  Oliver,  I  have  done  all  I  could  for  him  ;  but  he 
was  ruined  before  he  came  to  me  for  assistance. 

Sir  Oliv.  That  was  unlucky,  truly ;  for  you  have  had  no  oppor- 
tunity of  showing  your  talents. 

Mos.  None  at  all ;  I  had  n't  the  pleasure  of  knowing  his  dis- 
tresses till  he  was  some  thousands  worse  than  nothing. 

Sir  Oliv.  Unfortunate,  indeed  !  —  But  I  suppose  you  have  done 
all  in  your  power  for  him,  honest  Moses  ? 

Mos.  Yes,  he  knows  that.  —  This  very  evening  I  was  to  have 
brought  him  a  gentleman  from  the  city,  who  does  not  know  him,  and 
will,  I  believe,  advance  him  some  money. 

Sir  Peter.  What  —  one  Charles  has  never  had  money  from 
befcrc  ? 

Mos.    Yes,  Mr.  Premium,  of  Crutched  Friars,  formerly  a  broker. 

Sir  Peter.  Egad,  Sir  Oliver,  a  thought  strikes  me!  —  Charles, 
you  say,  does  not  know  Mr.  Premium  ? 

Mos.    Not  at  all. 

Sir  Peter.  Now  then,  Sir  Oliver,  you  may  have  a  better  oppor- 
tunity of  satisfying  yourself  than  by  an  old  romancing  tale  of  a  poor 
relation !  go  with  my  friend  Moses,  and  represent  Premium,  and 
then,  I  '11  answer  for  it,  you  '11  see  your  nephew  in  all  his  glory. 

Sir  Oliv.  Egad,  I  like  this  idea  better  than  the  other,  and  I  may 
visit  Joseph  aftenvards  as  old  Stanley. 

Sir  Peter.   True  —  so  you  may. 

Row.  Well,  this  is  taking  Charles  rather  at  a  disadvantage,  to  be 
sure.  However,  Moses,  you  understand  Sir  Peter,  and  will  be 
faithful  ? 

Mos.  You  may  depend  upon  me.  —  [Looks  at  his  watch.}  This  is 
near  the  time  I  was  to  have  gone. 

Sir  Oliv.   I  '11  accompany  you  as  soon  as  you  please,  Moses • 


A    COMEDY.  249 

But  hold  !  I  have  forgot  one  thing  —  how  the  plague  shall  I  be  able 
to  pass  for  a  Jew  ? 

Mo s.    There  's  no  need  —  the  principal  is  Christian. 

Sir  Oliv.  Is  he  ?  I  'm  very  sorry  to  hear  it.  But,  then  again, 
an't  I  rather  too  smartly  dressed  to  look  like  a  money-lender? 

Sir  Peter.  Not  at  all  :  't  would  not  be  out  of  character,  if  you 
went  in  your  own  carriage  —  would  it,  Moses  ? 

Mos.    Not  in  the  least. 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  but  how  must  I  talk  ?  there  's  certainly  some  cant 
of  usury  and  mode  of  treating  that  I  ought  to  know. 

Sir  Peter.  Oh,  there 's  not  much  to  learn.  The  great  point,  as  I 
take  it,  is  to  be  exorbitant  enough  in  your  demands.  Hey,  Moses  ? 

Mos.    Yes,  that 's  a  very  great  point. 

Sir  Oliv.  I  '11  answer  for 't  I  '11  not  be  wanting  in  that.  I  '11  ask 
him  eight  or  ten  per  cent  on  the  loan,  at  least. 

Mos.  If  you  ask  him  no  more  than  that,  you  '11  be  discovered 
immediately. 

Sir  Oliv.    Hey !  —  what  the  plague  —  how  much  then  ? 

Mos.  That  depends  upon  the  circumstances.  If  he  appears  not 
very  anxious  for  the  supply,  you  should  require  only  forty  or  fifty  per 
cent ;  but  if  you  find  him  in  great  distress,  and  want  the  moneys 
very  bad,  you  may  ask  double. 

Sir  Peter.    A  good  honest  trade  you  're  learning,  Sir  Oliver ! 

Sir  Oliv.    Truly,  I  think  so  —  and  not  unprofitable. 

Mos.  Then,  you  know,  you  have  n't  the  moneys  yourself,  but  are 
forced  to  borrow  them  for  him  of  a  friend. 

Sir  Oliv.    Oh  !  I  borrow  it  of  a  friend,  do  I  ? 

Mos.  And  your  friend  is  an  unconscionable  dog:  but  you  can't 
help  that. 

Sir  Oliv.    My  friend  an  unconscionable  dog,  is  he  ? 


250  THE  SCHOOL   FOR  SCANDAL. 

Mas.  Yes,  and  be  himself  has  not  the  moneys  by  him,  but  is 
forced  to  sell  stock  at  a  great  loss. 

Sir  Oliv.  He  is  forced  to  sell  stock  at  a  great  loss,  is  he  ?  Well, 
that  's  very  kind  of  him. 

Sir  Peter.  I' faith,  Sir  Oliver — Mr.  Premium,  I  mean  —  you'll 
soon  be  master  of  the  trade.  But,  Moses  !  would  not  you  have  him 
run  out  a  little  against  the  Annuity  Bill  ?  That  would  be  in  charac- 
ter, I  should  think. 

Mos.    Very  much. 

Row.  And  lament  that  a  young  man  now  must  be  at  years  of 
discretion  before  he  is  suffered  to  ruin  himself. 

Mos.    Ay,  great  pity. 

Sir  Peter.  And  abuse  the  public  for  allowing  merit  to  an  act 
whose  only  object  is  to  snatch  misfortune  and  imprudence  from  the 
rapacious  gripe  of  usury,  and  give  the  minor  a  chance  of  inheriting 
his  estate  without  being  undone  by  coming  into  possession. 

Sir  Oliv.  So,  so  —  Moses  shall  give  me  farther  instructions  as 
we  go  together. 

Sir  Peter.  You  will  not  have  much  time,  for  your  nephew  lives 
hard  by. 

Sir  Oliv.  Oh,  never  fear !  my  tutor  appears  so  able,  that  though 
Charles  lived  in  the  next  street,  it  must  be  my  own  fault  if  I  am 
not  a  complete  rogue  before  I  turn  the  corner.  \_Exit  with  MOSES. 

Sir  Peter.  So,  now,  I  think  Sir  Oliver  will  be  convinced :  you  are 
partial,  Rowley,  and  would  have  prepared  Charles  for  the  other  plot. 

Row.    No,  upon  my  word,  Sir  Peter. 

Sir  Peter.  Well,  go  bring  me  this  Snake,  and  I  '11  hear  what 
he  has  to  say  presently. —  I  see  Maria,  and  want  to  speak  with 
her. —  [Exit  ROWLEY.]  I  should  be  glad  to  be  convinced  my  sus- 
picions of  Lady  Teazle  and  Charles  were  unjust.  I  have  never 


A    COAfEDY.  251 

yet  opened  my  mind  on  this  subject   to   my  friend  Joseph  —  I  am 
determined  I  will  do  it  —  he  will  give  me  his  opinion  sincerely. 

Enter  MARIA. 
So,  child,  has  Mr.  Surface  returned  with  you  ? 

Mar.    No,  sir ;  he  was  engaged. 

Sir  Peter.  Well,  Maria,  do  you  not  reflect,  the  more  you 
converse  with  that  amiable  young  man,  what  return  his  partiality 
for  you  deserves  ? 

Mar.  Indeed,  Sir  Peter,  your  frequent  importunity  on  this  sub- 
ject distresses  me  extremely  —  you  compel  me  to  declare  that  I 
know  no  man  who  has  ever  paid  me  a  particular  attention  whom 
I  would  not  prefer  to  Mr.  Surface. 

Sir  Peter.  So  —  here  's  perverseness !  —  No,  no,  Maria,  't  is  Charles 
only  whom  you  would  prefer.  'T  is  evident  his  vices  and  follies 
have  won  your  heart. 

Mar.  This  is  unkind,  sir.  You  know  I  have  obeyed  you  in 
neither  seeing  nor  corresponding  with  him  :  I  have  heard  enough 
to  convince  me  that  he  is  unworthy  my  regard.  Yet  I  cannot 
think  it  culpable,  if,  while  my  understanding  severely  condemns 
his  vices,  my  heart  suggests  some  pity  for  his  distresses. 

Sir  Peter.  Well,  well,  pity  him  as  much  as  you  please;  but 
give  your  heart  and  hand  to  a  worthier  object. 

Mar.   Never  to  his  brother! 

Sir  Peter.  Go,  perverse  and  obstinate !  But  take  care,  madam  ; 
you  have  never  yet  known  what  the  authority  of  a  guardian  is  : 
don't  compel  me  to  inform  you  of  it. 

Mar.  I  can  only  say  you  shall  not  have  just  reason.  'Tis 
true,  by  my  father's  will,  I  am  for  a  short  period  bound  to  regard 
you  as  his  substitute ;  but  must  cease  to  think  you  so,  when  you 
would  compel  me  to  be  miserable.  [Exit  MARIA. 


2$2  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

Sir  Peter.  Was  ever  man  so  crossed  as  I  am  ?  everything  con- 
spiring to  fret  me!  I  had  not  been  involved  in  matrimony  a  fort- 
night, before  her  father,  a  hale  and  hearty  man,  died,  on  purpose, 
I  believe,  for  the  pleasure  of  plaguing  me  with  the  care  of  his 
daughter. — [Lady  Teazle  sings  without^  But  here  comes  my  help- 
mate !  She  appears  in  great  good  humor.  How  happy  I  should 
be  if  I  could  tease  her  into  loving  me,  though  but  a  little! 
Enter  LADY  TEAZLE. 

Lady  Tcaz.  Lud  !  Sir  Peter,  I  hope  you  have  n't  been  quarrel- 
ling with  Maria  ?  It  is  not  using  me  well  to  be  ill-humored  when 
I  am  not  by. 

Sir  Peter.  Ah,  Lady  Teazle,  yqu  might  have  the  power  to  make 
me  good  humored  at  all  times. 

Lady  Teaz.  I  am  sure  I  wish  I  had ;  for  I  want  you  to  be  in 
a  charming  sweet  temper  at  this  moment.  Do  be  good-humored 
now,  and  let  me  have  two  hundred  pounds,  will  you? 

Sir  Peter.  Two  hundred  pounds  ;  what,  an't  I  to  be  in  a  good 
humor  without  paying  for  it !  But  speak  to  me  thus,  and  i'  faith 
there 's  nothing  I  could  refuse  you.  You  shall  have  it ;  but  seal 
me  a  bond  for  the  repayment. 

Lady  Teaz.    Oh,  no  —  there  —  my  note  of  hand  will  do  as  well. 

{Offering'  her  hand. 

Sir  Peter.  And  you  shall  no  longer  reproach  me  with  not  giv- 
ing you  an  independent  settlement.  I  mean  shortly  to  surprise 
you  :  —  but  shall  we  always  live  thus,  hey  ? 

Lady  Tcaz.  If  you  please.  I  'm  sure  I  don't  care  how  soon  we 
leave  off  quarrelling,  provided  you  '11  own  you  were  tired  first. 

Sir  Peter.  Well  —  then  let  our  future  contest  be,  who  shall 
be  most  obliging. 

Lady  Teaz.    I  assure  you,  Sir  Peter,  good  nature  becomes  you. 


A    COMEDY.  253 

You  look  now  as  you  did  before  we  were  married,  when  you  used 
to  walk  with  me  under  the  elms,  and  tell  me  stories  of  what  a 
gallant  you  were  in  your  youth,  and  chuck  me  under  the  chin, 
you  would  ;  and  ask  me  if  I  thought  I  could  love  an  old  fellow 
who  would  deny  me  nothing  —  did  n't  you  ? 

Sir  Peter.    Yes,  yes,  and  you  were  as  kind  and  attentive 

Lady  Teaz.  Ay,  so  I  was,  and  would  always  take  your  part, 
when  my  acquaintance  used  to  abuse  you,  and  turn  you  into  ridi- 
cule. 

Sir  Peter.    Indeed ! 

Lady  Teaz.  Ay,  and  when  my  cousin  Sophy  has  called  you  a 
stiff,  peevish  old  bachelor,  and  laughed  at  me  for  thinking  of 
marrying  one  who  might  be  my  father,  I  have  always  defended 
you,  and  said,  I  did  n't  think  you  so  ugly  by  any  means. 

Sir  Peter.    Thank  you. 

Lady  Teaz.  And  I  dared  say  you  'd  make  a  very  good  sort 
of  a  husband. 

Sir  Peter.  And  you  prophesied  right ;  and  we  shall  now  be  the 
happiest  couple 

Lady  Teaz.    And  never  differ  again  ? 

Sir  Peter.  No,  never !  —  though  at  the  same  time,  indeed,  my 
dear  Lady  Teazle,  you  must  watch  your  temper  very  seriously  ; 
for  in  all  our  little  quarrels,  my  dear,  if  you  recollect,  my  love, 
you  always  began  first. 

Lady  Teaz.  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear  Sir  Peter :  indeed  you 
always  gave  the  provocation. 

Sir  Peter.  Now  see,  my  angel!  take  care — contradicting  isn't 
the  way  to  keep  friends. 

Lady  Teaz.    Then  don't  you  begin  it,  my  love! 

Sir  Peter.    There,   now !   you  —  you   are   going   on.      You   don't 


254  THE  SCHOOL   FOR  SCANDAL. 

perceive,  my  life,  that  you  are  just  doing  the  very  thing  which 
you  know  always  makes  me  angry. 

Lady  Teaz.  Nay,  you  know  if  you  will  be  angry  without  any 
reason,  my  dear 

Sir  Peter.    There!  now  you  want  to  quarrel  again. 

Lady  Teaz.  No,  I  'm  sure  I  don't :  but  if  you  will  be  so 
peevish  — 

Sir  Peter.    There  now!  who  begins  first? 

Lady  Teaz.  Why,  you,  to  be  sure.  I  said  nothing  —  but  there's 
no  bearing  your  temper. 

Sir  Peter.    No,  no,  madam  :   the  fault 's  in  your  own  temper. 

Lady  Teaz.  Ay,  you  are  just  what  my  cousin  Sophy  said  you 
would  be. 

Sir  Peter.    Your  cousin   Sophy  is  a  forward,  impertinent  gipsy. 

Lady  Teaz.  You  are  a  great  bear,  I  'm  sure,  to  abuse  my 
relations. 

Sir  Peter.  Now  may  all  the  plagues  of  marriage  be  doubled 
on  me,  if  ever  I  try  to  be  friends  with  you  any  more! 

Lady  Teaz.    So  much  the  better. 

Sir  Peter.  No,  no,  madam  :  'tis  evident  you  never  cared  a  pin 
for  me,  and  I  was  a  madman  to  marry  you  —  a  pert,  rural  coquette, 
that  had  refused  half  the  honest  'squires  in  the  neighborhood! 

Lady  Teas.  And  I  am  sure  I  was  a  fool  to  marry  you  —  an 
old  dangling  bachelor,  who  was  single  at  fifty,  only  because  he 
never  could  meet  with  any  one  who  would  have  him. 

Sir  Peter.  Ay,  ay,  madam ;  but  you  were  pleased  enough  to 
listen  to  me  :  you  never  had  such  an  offer  before. 

Lady  Teaz.  No  !  did  n't  I  refuse  Sir  Tivy  Terrier,  who  everybody 
said  would  have  been  a  better  match  ?  for  his  estate  is  just  as  good 
as  yours,  and  he  has  broke  his  neck  since  we  have  been  married. 


A    COMEDY.  255 

Sir  Peter.  I  have  done  with  you,  madam !  You  are  an  unfeel- 
ing, ungrateful  —  but  there 's  an  end  of  everything.  I  believe 
you  capable  of  everything  that  is  bad.  Yes,  madam,  I  now 
believe  the  reports  relative  to  you  and  Charles,  madam.  Yes, 
madam,  you  and  Charles  are,  —  not  without  grounds 

Lady  Teaz.  Take  care,  Sir  Peter !  you  had  better  not  insinuate 
any  such  thing  !  I  '11  not  be  suspected  without  cause,  I  promise 
you. 

Sir  Peter.  Very  well,  madam  !  very  well  !  A  separate  main- 
tenance as  soon  as  you  please.  Yes,  madam,  or  a  divorce  !  I'  11 
make  an  example  of  myself  for  the  benefit  of  all  old  bachelors. 
Let  us  separate,  madam. 

Lady  Teaz.  Agreed !  agreed !  And  now,  my  dear  Sir  Peter, 
we  are  of  a  mind  once  more,  we  may  be  the  happiest  couple,  and 
never  differ  again,  you  know :  ha  !  ha !  ha !  Well,  you  are  going 
to  be  in  a  passion,  I  see,  and  I  shall  only  interrupt  you  —  so, 
bye  !  bye !  [Exit. 

Sir  Peter.  Plagues  and  tortures  !  Can't  I  make  her  angry  either  ! 
Oh,  I  am  the  most  miserable  fellow !  But  I  '11  not  bear  her  pre- 
suming to  keep  her  temper :  no !  she  may  break  my  heart,  but 
she  sha'n't  keep  her  temper.  [Exit. 


SCENE  II.  —  A  Room  in  CHARLES  SURFACE'S  House. 
Enter  TRIP,  MOSES,  and  SIR  OLIVER  SURFACE. 

Trip.    Here,   Master   Moses !   if  you  Ml   stay  a  moment,  I  '11  try 
whether — what's  the  gentleman's  name? 

Sir  Oliv.    Mr.   Moses,  what  is  my  name  ?  [Aside  to  MOSES. 

Mas.    Mr.  Premium. 


2$6  THE  SCHOOL   FOR  SCANDAL. 

Trip.    Premium  —  very  well.  \Exit  TRIP,  taking  snuff. 

Sir  Oliv.  To  judge  by  the  servants,  one  would  n't  believe  the 
master  was  ruined.  But  what !  —  sure,  this  was  my  brother's 
house  ? 

Mos.  Yes,  sir  ;  Mr.  Charles  bought  it  of  Mr.  Joseph,  with  the 
furniture,  pictures,  &c.,  just  as  the  old  gentleman  left  it.  Sir 
Peter  thought  it  a  piece  of  extravagance  in  him. 

Sir  Oliv.  In  my  mind,  the  other's  economy  in  selling  it  to 
him  was  more  reprehensible  by  half. 

Re-Enter  TRIP. 

Trip.  My  master  says  you  must  wait,  gentlemen  :  he  has  com- 
pany, and  can't  speak  with  you  yet. 

Sir  Oliv.  If  he  knew  who  it  was  wanted  to  see  him,  perhaps  he 
would  not  send  such  a  message  ? 

Ttip.  Yes,  yes,  sir;  he  knows  you  are  here  —  I  did  not  forget 
little  Premium  :  no,  no,  no. 

Sir  Oliv.    Very  well ;   and  I  pray,  sir,  what  may  be  your  name  ? 

Trip.    Trip,  sir  ;  my  name  is  Trip,  at  your  service. 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  then,  Mr.  Trip,  you  have  a  pleasant  sort  of  place 
here,  I  guess  ? 

Trip.  Why,  yes  —  here  are  three  or  four  of  us  pass  our  time 
agreeably  enough  ;  but  then  our  wages  are  sometimes  a  little  in 
arrear — and  not  very  great  either  —  but  fifty  pounds  a  year,  and 
find  our  own  bags  and  bouquets  ! 

Sir  Oliv.    Bags  and  bouquets  !  halters  and  bastinadoes.       [Aside. 

Trip.  And  d  propos,  Moses,  —  have  you  been  able  to  get  me 
that  little  bill  discounted? 

Sir  Oliv.  Wants  to  raise  money  too  !  —  mercy  on  me  !  Has  his 
distresses  too,  I  warrant,  like  a  lord,  and  affects  creditors  and  duns. 

{Aside. 


A   COMEDY.  257 

Mos.    'Twas  not  to  be  done,  indeed,  Mr.  Trip. 

Trip.  Good  lack,  you  surprise  me  !  My  friend  Brush  has  indorsed 
it,  and  I  thought  when  he  put  his  name  at  the  back  of  a  bill  't  was  the 
same  as  cash. 

Mos.    No,  't  would  n't  do. 

Trip.  A  small  sum  —  but  twenty  pounds.  Hark  'ee,  Moses,  do 
you  think  you  could  n't  get  it  me  by  way  of  annuity  ? 

Sir  Oliv.  An  annuity !  ha !  ha !  a  footman  raise  money  by  way 
of  annuity  !  Well  done,  luxury,  egad  !  {Aside. 

Mos.    Well,  but  you  must  insure  your  place. 

Trip.  Oh,  with  all  my  heart !  I  '11  insure  my  place  and  my  life 
too,  if  you  please. 

Sir  Oliv.    It  is  more  than  I  would  your  neck.  [Aside. 

Mos.    But  is  there  nothing  you  could  deposit  ? 

Trip.  Why,  nothing  capital  of  my  master's  wardrobe  has  dropped 
lately;  but  I  could  give  you  a  mortgage  on  some  of  his  winter 
clothes,  with  equity  of  redemption  before  November — or  you  shall 
have  the  reversion  of  the  French  velvet,  or  a  post-obit  on  the  blue 
and  silver;  —  these,  I  should  think,  Moses,  with  a  few  pair  of  point 
ruffles,  as  a  collateral  security  —  hey,  my  little  fellow'? 

Mos.  Well,  well.  [Bell  rings. 

Trip.  Egad,  I  heard  the  bell !  I  believe,  gentlemen,  I  can  now 
introduce  you.  Don't  forget  the  annuity,  little  Moses  !  This  way, 
gentlemen,  I  '11  insure  my  place,  you  know. 

Sir  Oliv.  [Aside.~\  If  the  man  be  a  shadow  of  the  master,  this  is 
the  temple  of  dissipation  indeed  !  [Exeunt. 


258  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

SCENE  III.  — Another  room  in  the  same. 

CHARLES   SURFACE,  SIR  HARRY  BUMPER,  CARELESS,  and  GENTLE- 
MEN, discovered  drinking. 

Chas.  Surf.  'Fore  heaven,  'tis  true! — there's  the  great  degen- 
eracy of  the  age.  Many  of  our  acquaintance  have  taste,  spirit,  and 
politeness  ;  but,  plague  on 't,  they  won't  drink. 

Care.  It  is  so,  indeed,  Charles  !  they  give  in  to  all  the  substantial 
luxuries  of  the  table,  and  abstain  from  nothing  but  wine  and  wit. 
Oh,  certainly  society  surfers  by  it  intolerably !  for  now,  instead  of 
the  social  spirit  of  raillery  that  used  to  mantle  over  a  glass  of  bright 
Burgundy,  their  conversation  is  become  just  like  the  Spa-water  they 
drink,  which  has  all  the  pertness  and  flatulency  of  champagne,  with- 
out its  spirit  or  flavor. 

1st  Gent.  But  what  are  they  to  do  who  love  play  better  than 
wine  ? 

Care.  True !  there 's  Sir  Harry  diets  himself  for  gaming,  and 
is  now  under  a  hazard  regimen. 

Chas.  Surf.  Then  he  '11  have  the  worst  of  it.  What !  you  would  n't 
train  a  horse  for  the  course  by  keeping  him  from  corn  ?  For  my 
part,  egad,  I  am  never  so  successful  as  when  I  am  a  little  merry  :  let 
me  throw  on  a  bottle  of  champagne,  and  I  never  lose. 

All.    Hey,  what? 

Care.  At  least  I  never  feel  my  losses,  which  is  exactly  the  same 
thing. 

2d  Gent.    Ay,  that  I  believe. 

Chas.  Surf.  And  then,  what  man  can  pretend  to  be  a  believer  in 
love,  who  is  an  abjurer  of  wine  ?  'Tis  the  test  by  which  the  lover 
knows  his  own  heart.  Fill  a  dozen  bumpers  to  a  dozen  beauties,  and 
she  that  floats  at  the  top  is  the  maid  that  has  bewitched  you. 


MR.  CHARLES  COGHLAN  AS  CHARLES  SURFACE. 


A    COMEDY.  259 

Care,  Now  then,  Charles,  be  honest,  and  give  us  your  real 
favorite. 

Chas.  Surf.  Why,  I  have  withheld  her  only  in  compassion  to  you. 
If  I  toast  her,  you  must  give  a  round  of  her  peers,  which  is  impos- 
sible —  on  earth. 

Care  Oh !  then  we  '11  find  some  canonized  vestals  or  heathen 
goddesses  that  will  do,  I  warrant ! 

Chas.  Surf.  Here  then,  bumpers,  you  rogues  !  bumpers !  Maria  ! 
Maria !  

Sir  Har.    Maria  who  ? 

Chas.  Surf.  Oh,  damn  the  surname  !  —  't  is  too  formal  to  be 
registered  in  Love's  calendar  —  Maria  ! 

All    Maria ! 

Chas.  Surf.  But  now,  Sir  Harry,  beware,  we  must  have  beauty 
superlative. 

Care.  Nay,  never  study,  Sir  Harry :  we  '11  stand  to  the  toast, 
though  your  mistress  should  want  an  eye,  and  you  know  you 
have  a  song  will  excuse  you. 

Sir  Har.    Egad,  so  I  have !   and  I  '11  give  him  the  song  instead 

of  the  lady. 

SONG. 

Here's  to  the  maiden  of  bashful  fifteen; 

Here's  to  the  widow  of  fifty; 
Here's  to  the  flaunting  extravagant  quean, 

And  here's  to  the  housewife  that's  thrifty. 
Chorus.     Let  the  toast  pass,  — 

Drink  to  the  lass, 
I  '11  warrant  she  '11  prove  an  excuse  for  the  glass. 

Here's  to  the  charmer  whose  dimples  we  prize; 

Now  to  the  maid  who  has  none,  sir: 
Here's  to  the  girl  with  a  pair  of  blue  eyes, 

And  here'  s  to  the  nymph  with  but  one,  sir. 
Chorus.     Let  the  toast  pass,  &c. 


260  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

Here 's  to  the  maid  with  a  bosom  of  snow : 
Now  to  her  that's  as  brown  as  a  berry, 

Here  's  to  the  wife  with  a  face  full  of  woe, 

And  now  to  the  damsel  that 's  merry. 
Ckorus.     Let  the  toast  pass,  &c. 

For  let'em  be  clumsy,  or  let'em  be  slim, 
Young  or  ancient,  I  care  not  a  feather ; 
So  fill  a  pint  bumper  quite  up  to  the  brim, 
So  fill  up  your  glasses,  nay,  fill  to  the  brim, 

And  let  us  e'en  toast  them  together. 
Chorus.     Let  the  toast  pass,  &c. 


All.    Bravo  !  bravo  ! 

Enter  TRIP,  and  whispers  CHARLES  SURFACE. 

Chas.  Surf.  Gentlemen,  you  must  excuse  me  a  little,  —  Careless, 
take  the  chair,  will  you  ? 

Care.  Nay,  pr'ythee,  Charles,  what  now?  This  is  one  of  your 
peerless  beauties,  I  suppose,  has  dropped  in  by  chance  ? 

Chas.  Surf.  No,  faith !  To  tell  you  the  truth,  't  is  a  Jew  and  a 
broker,  who  are  come  by  appointment. 

Care.    Oh,  damn  it !  let 's  have  the  Jew  in. 
.      1st  Gent.    Ay,  and  the  broker  too,  by  all  means. 

2d  Gent.   Yes,  yes,  the  Jew  and  the  broker. 

Chas.  Surf.  Egad,  with  all  my  heart !  —  Trip,  bid  the  gentlemen 
walk  in.  —  \Exit  TRIP.]  Though  there 's  one  of  them  a  stranger, 
I  can  tell  you. 

Care.  Charles,  let  us  give  them  some  generous  Burgundy,  and 
perhaps  they'll  grow  conscientious. 

Chas.  Surf.  Oh,  hang  'em,  no !  wine  does  but  draw  forth  a 
man's  natural  qualities ;  and  to  make  them  drink  would  only  be 
to  whet  their  knavery. 


A    COMEDY.  26l 

Re-enter  TRIP,  with  SIR  OLIVER  SURFACE  and  MOSES. 

Chas.  Surf.  So,  honest  Moses ;  walk  in,  pray,  Mr.  Premium  — 
that 's  the  gentleman's  name,  isn't  it,  Moses  ? 

Mos.    Yes,  sir. 

Chas.  Surf.  Set  chairs,  Trip.  —  Sit  down,  Mr.  Premium.  — 
Glasses,  Trip.  —  [Gives  chairs  and  glasses,  and  exit]  Sit  down, 
Moses.  —  Come,  Mr.  Premium,  I  '11  give  you  a  sentiment ;  here  's 
Success  to  usury  !  —  Moses,  fill  the  gentleman  a  bumper. 

Mos.    Success  to  usury  !  [Drinks. 

Care.  Right,  Moses  —  usury  is  prudence  and  industry,  and 
deserves  to  succeed. 

Sir  Oliv.    Then  —  here  's  all  the  success  it  deserves  !  [Drinks. 

Care.  No,  no,  that  won't  do  !  Mr.  Premium,  you  have  demurred 
at  the  toast,  and  must  drink  it  in  a  pint  bumper. 

1st  Gent.    A  pint  bumper,  at  least. 

Mos.    Oh,  pray,  sir,  consider  —  Mr.  Premium's  a  gentleman. 

Care.   And  therefore  loves  good  wine. 

2d  Gent.  Give  Moses  a  quart  glass  —  this  is  mutiny,  and  a 
high  contempt  for  the  chair. 

Care.  Here,  now  for't!  I'll  see  justice  done,  to  the  last  drop 
of  my  bottle. 

Sir  Oliv.    Nay,  pray,  gentlemen  —  I  did  not  expect  this  usage. 

Chas.  Surf.    No,  hang  it,  you  shan't;  Mr.  Premium  's  a  stranger. 

Sir  Oliv.    Odd  !  I  wish  I  was  well  out  of  their  company.      [Aside. 

Care.  Plague  on  'em !  if  they  won't  drink,  we  '11  not  sit  down 
with  them.  Come,  Harry,  the  dice  are  in  the  next  room. —  Charles, 
you  '11  join  us  when  you  have  finished  your  business  with  the  gentle- 
men? 

Chas.  Surf.  I  will!  I  will !  —  [Exeunt  SIR  HARRY  BUMPER  and 
GENTLEMEN  ;  CARELESS  following.]  Careless  ! 


262  THE   SCHOOL   FOR   SCANDAL. 

Care.    [Returning.}  Well! 

Chas.  Surf.    Perhaps  I  may  want  you 

Care.  Oh,  you  know  I  am  always  ready  :  word,  note,  or  bond, 
't  is  all  the  same  to  me.  [Exit. 

Mas.  Sir,  this  is  Mr.  Premium,  a  gentleman  of  the  strictest 
honor  and  secrecy ;  and  always  performs  what  he  undertakes.  Mr. 
Premium,  this  is  • 

Chas.  Surf.  Pshaw  !  have  done.  Sir,  my  friend  Moses  is  a  very 
honest  fellow,  but  a  little  slow  at  expression :  he  '11  be  an  hour 
giving  us  our  titles.  Mr  Premium,  the  plain  state  of  the  matter 
is  this :  I  am  an  extravagant  young  fellow  who  wants  to  borrow 
money ;  you  I  take  to  be  a  prudent  old  fellow,  who  have  got  money 
to  lend.  I  am  blockhead  enough  to  give  fifty  per  cent  sooner 
than  not  have  it ;  and  you,  I  presume,  are  rogue  enough  to  take 
a  hundred  if  you  can  get  it.  Now,  sir,  you  see  we  are  acquainted 
at  once,  and  may  proceed  to  business  without  farther  ceremony. 

Sir  Oliv.  Exceeding  frank,  upon  my  word.  I  see,  sir,  you  are 
not  a  man  of  many  compliments. 

Chas.  Surf.  Oh,  no,  sir!  plain  dealing  in  business  I  always 
think  best. 

Sir  Oliv.  Sir,  I  like  you  the  better  for  it.  However,  you  are  mis- 
taken in  one  thing ;  I  have  no  money  to  lend,  but  I  believe  I 
could  procure  some  of  a  friend;  but  then  he's  an  unconscion- 
able dog.  Is  n't  he,  Moses  ? 

Mos.   But  you  can't  help  that. 

Sir  Oliv.  And  must  sell  stock  to  accommodate  you.  —  Mustn't 
he,  Moses? 

Mos.  Yes,  indeed !  You  know  I  always  speak  the  truth,  and 
scorn  to  tell  a  lie! 

Chas.  Surf.    Right.     People  that  speak  truth  generally  do.     But 


A    COMEDY.  263 

these  are  trifles,  Mr.  Premium.  What!  I  know  money  isn't  to 
be  bought  without  paying  for 't  ! 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  but  what  security  could  you  give  ?  You  have  no 
land,  I  suppose  ? 

Chas.  Surf.  Not  a  mole-hill,  nor  a  twig,  but  what 's  in  the  bough- 
pots  out  of  the  window! 

Sir  Oliv.   Nor  any  stock,  I  presume  ? 

Chas.  Surf.  Nothing  but  live  stock  —  and  that's  only  a  few 
pointers  and  ponies.  But  pray,  Mr.  Premium,  are  you  acquainted 
at  all  with  any  of  my  connections. 

Sir  Oliv.    Why,  to  say  truth,  I  am. 

Chas.  Surf.  Then  you  must  know  that  I  have  a  devilish  rich 
uncle  in  the  East  Indies,  Sir  Oliver  Surface,  from  whom  I  have 
the  greatest  expectations  ? 

Sir  Oliv.  That  you  have  a  wealthy  uncle,  I  have  heard ;  but 
how  your  expectations  will  turn  out  is  more,  I  believe,  than  you 
can  tell. 

Chas.  Surf.  Oh,  no !  —  there  can  be  no  doubt.  They  tell  me 
I  'm  a  prodigious  favorite,  and  that  he  talks  of  leaving  me  everything. 

Sir  Oliv.    Indeed  !  this  is  the  first  I  've  heard  of  it. 

Chas.  Surf.  Yes,  yes,  't  is  just  so.  —  Moses  knows  't  is  true ; 
don't  you,  Moses  ? 

Mos.    Oh,  yes  !  I  '11  swear  to  't. 

Sir  Oliv.  Egad,  they  '11  persuade  me  presently  I  'm  at  Bengal. 

{Aside. 

Chas.  Surf.  Now  I  propose,  Mr.  Premium,  if  it 's  agreeable  to 
you,  a  post-obit  on  Sir  Oliver's  life ;  though  at  the  same  time 
the  old  fellow  has  been  so  liberal  to  me,  that  I  give  you  my 
word,  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  hear  that  anything  had  happened 
to  him. 


264  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

Sir  Oliv.  Not  more  than  I  should,  I  assure  you.  But  the  bond 
you  mention  happens  to  be  just  the  worst  security  you  could 
offer  me — for  I  might  live  to  a  hundred  and  never  see  the  prin- 
cipal. 

Chas.  Surf.  Oh,  yes,  you  would!  the  moment  Sir  Oliver  dies, 
you  know,  you  would  come  on  me  for  the  money. 

Sir  Oliv.  Then  I  believe  I  should  be  the  most  unwelcome  dun 
you  ever  had  in  your  life. 

Chas.  Surf.  What!  I  suppose  you're  afraid  that  Sir  Oliver  is 
too  good  a  life? 

Sir  Oliv.  No,  indeed  I  am  not ;  though  I  have  heard  he  is 
as  hale  and  healthy  as  any  man  of  his  years  in  Christendom. 

Chas.  Surf.  There,  again,  now  you  are  misinformed.  No,  no, 
the  climate  has  hurt  him  considerably,  poor  uncle  Oliver.  Yes, 
yes,  he  breaks  apace,  I'm  told — and  is  so  much  altered  lately 
that  his  nearest  relations  don't  know  him. 

Sir  Oliv.  No !  Ha !  ha !  ha !  so  much  altered  lately  that  his 
nearest  relations  don't  know  him  !  Ha !  ha !  ha !  egad  —  ha  !  ha !  ha ! 

Chas.  Surf.    Ha !  ha !  —  you  're  glad  to  hear  that,  little  Premium  ? 

Sir  Oliv.    No,  no,  I  'm  not. 

Chas.  Surf.  Yes,  yes,  you  are  —  ha!  ha!  ha!  —  you  know  that 
mends  your  chance. 

Sir  Oliv.  But  I  'm  told  Sir  Oliver  is  coming  over ;  nay,  some  say 
he  is  actually  arrived. 

Chas.  Surf.  Pshaw !  sure  I  must  know  better  than  you  whether 
he 's  come  or  not.  No,  no,  rely  on 't  he 's  at  this  moment  at 
Calcutta.  —  Is  n't  he,  Moses  ? 

Mas.    Oh,  yes,  certainly. 

Sir  Oliv.  Very  true,  as  you  say,  you  must  know  better  than  I, 
though  I  have  it  from  pretty  good  authority.  —  Have  n't  I,  Moses  ? 


A    COAfEDY  265 

Mos.    Yes,  most  undoubtedly  ! 

Sir  Oliv.  But,  sir,  as  I  understand,  you  want  a  few  hundreds 
immediately,  —  is  there  nothing  you  could  dispose  of  ? 

Chas.  Surf.    How  do  you  mean  ? 

Sir  Oliv.  For  instance,  now,  I  have  heard  that  your  father  left 
behind  him  a  great  quantity  of  massy  old  plate. 

Chas  Surf.  O  Lud !  that 's  gone  long  ago.  Moses  can  tell  you 
how  better  than  I  can. 

Sir  O/iv.  [Aside.]  Good  lack !  all  the  family  race-cups  and  cor- 
poration-bowls !  [Aloud.]'  Then  it  was  also  supposed  that  his  library 
was  one  of  the  most  valuable  and  compact  — 

Chas.  Surf.  Yes,  yes,  so  it  was  —  vastly  too  much  so  for  a  private 
gentleman.  For  my  part,  I  was  always  of  a  communicative  disposi- 
tion, so  I  thought  it  a  shame  to  keep  so  much  knowledge  to  myself. 

Sir  Oliv.  [Aside.']  Mercy  upon  me  !  learning  that  had  run  in  the 
family  like  an  heir-loom  —  [Aloud.]  Pray,  what  are  become  of  the 
books  ? 

C/tas.  Surf.  You  must  inquire  of  the  auctioneer,  Master  Premium, 
for  I  don't  believe  even  Moses  can  direct  you. 

Mos.    I  know  nothing  of  books. 

Sir  Oliv.    So,  so,  nothing  of  the  family  property  left,  I  suppose? 

Chas.  Surf.  Not  much,  indeed ;  unless  you  have  a  mind  to  the 
family  pictures.  I  have  got  a  room  full  of  ancestors  above  ;  and 
if  you  have  a  taste  for  old  paintings,  egad,  you  shall  have  'em  a 
bargain  ! 

Sir  Oliv.  Hey  !  what  the  devil !  sure,  you  would  n't  sell  your 
forefathers,  would  you  ? 

Chas.  Surf.    Every  man  of  them,  to  the  best  bidder. 

Sir  Oliv.    What,  your  great-uncles  and  aunts  ? 

C/ias.    Surf.   Ay,  and  my  great-grandfathers  and  grandmothers  too. 


266  THE  SCHOOL   FOR  SCANDAL. 

Sir  Oliv.  [Aside.}  Now  I  give  him  up !  —  [Aloud.}  What  the 
plague,  have  you  no  bowels  for  your  own  kindred  ?  Odd 's  life  !  do 
you  take  me  for  Shylock  in  the  play,  that  you  would  raise  money  of 
me  on  your  own  flesh  and  blood  ? 

C/tas.  Surf.  Nay,  my  little  broker,  don't  be  angry  :  what  need  you 
care,  if  you  have  your  money's  worth  ? 

Sir  Oliv.    Well,  I  '11  be  the  purchaser  :  I  think  I  can  dispose  of 
the  family  canvas.  —  [Aside.}  Oh,  I'll  never  forgive  him  this!  never! 
[Re-Enter  CARELESS.] 

Care.    Come,  Charles,  what  keeps  you  ? 

Chas.  Surf.  I  can't  come  yet.  I"  faith,  we  are  going  to  have  a 
sale  above-stairs ;  here 's  little  Premium  will  buy  all  my  ancestors  ! 

Care.   Oh,  burn  your  ancestors  ! 

C/tas.  Surf.  No,  he  may  do  that  afterwards,  if  he  pleases.  Stay, 
Careless,  we  want  you:  egad,  you  shall  be  auctioneer  —  so  come 
along  with  us. 

Care.  Oh,  have  with  you,  if  that 's  the  case.  I  can  handle  a 
hammer  as  well  as  a  dice-box !  Going !  going ! 

Sir  Oliv.    Oh,  the  profligates  !  [Aside. 

C/ias.  Surf.  Come,  Moses,  you  shall  be  appraiser,  if  we  want  one. 
Gad's  life,  little  Premium,  you  don't  seem  to  like  the  business  ? 

Sir  Oliv.  Oh,  yes,  I  do,  vastly  !  Ha !  ha  !  ha  !  yes,  yes,  I  think 
it  a  rare  joke  to  sell  one's  family  by  auction — ha!  ha! — [Aside.} 
Oh,  the  prodigal ! 

Chas.  Surf.  To  be  sure  !  when  a  man  wants  money,  where  the 
plague  should  he  get  assistance,  if  he  can't  make  free  with  his  own 
relations  ? 

Sir  Oliv.    I  '11  never  forgive  him  ;  never !  never !  [Exeunt. 


A    COMEDY.  267 


ACT    IV. 

SCENE  I.  —  A  Picture  Room  in  CHARLES  SURFACE'S  House. 

Enter  CHARLES    SURFACE,    SIR    OLIVER    SURFACE,    MOSES,   and 
CARELESS. 

Chas.  Surf.  Walk  in,  gentlemen,  pray  walk  in  ;  —  here  they  are, 
the  family  of  the  Surfaces,  up  to  the  Conquest. 

Sir  Oliv.    And,  in  my  opinion,  a  goodly  collection. 

Chas.  Surf.  Ay,  ay,  these  are  done  in  the  true  spirit  of  portrait- 
painting  ;  no  volontiere  grace  or  expression.  Not  like  the  works 
of  your  modern  Raphaels,  who  give  you  the  strongest  resem- 
blance, yet  contrive  to  make  your  portrait  independent  of  you ; 
so  that  you  may  sink  the  original  and  not  hurt  the  picture.  —  No,  no ; 
the  merit  of  these  is  the  inveterate  likeness — all  stiff  and  awkward 
as  the  originals,  and  like  nothing  in  human  nature  besides. 

Sir  Oliv.    Ah !  we  shall  never  see  such  figures  of  men  again. 

Chas.  Surf.  I  hope  not  —  Well,  you  see,  Master  Premium,  what 
a  domestic  character  I  am  ;  here  I  sit  of  an  evening  surrounded 
by  my  family.  —  But  come,  get  to  your  pulpit,  Mr.  Auctioneer ; 
here 's  an  old  gouty  chair  of  my  grandfather's  will  answer  the 
purpose. 

Care.  Ay,  ay,  this  will  do.  —  But,  Charles,  I  haven't  a  hammer; 
and  what 's  an  auctioneer  without  his  hammer  ? 

Chas.  Surf.  Egad,  that's  true.  What  parchment  have  we  here? 
Oh,  our  genealogy  in  full.  {Taking  pedigree  down.}  Here,  Care- 
less, you  shall  have  no  common  bit  of  mahogany,  here's  the 


268  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

family  tree  for  you,  you  rogue!  This  shall  be  your  hammer,  and 
now  you  may  knock  down  my  ancestors  with  their  own  pedigree. 

Sir  Oliv.  What  an  unnatural  rogue !  —  an  ex  post  facto  par- 
ricide !  {Aside. 

Care.  Yes,  yes,  here's  a  list  of  your  generation  indeed;  —  faith, 
Charles,  this  is  the  most  convenient  thing  you  could  have  found 
for  the  business,  for  't  will  not  only  serve  as  a  hammer,  but  a 
catalogue  into  the  bargain.  Come,  begin  —  A-going,  a-going, 
a-going ! 

Chas.  Surf.  Bravo,  Careless!  Well,  here's  my  great-uncle,  Sir 
Richard  Raveline,  a  marvellous  good  general  in  his  day,  I  assure 
you.  He  served  in  all  the  Duke  of  Marlborough's  wars,  and  got 
that  cut  over  his  eye  at  the  battle  of  Malplaquet.  What  say  you, 
Mr.  Premium  ?  look  at  him  —  there  's  a  hero  !  not  cut  out  of  his 
feathers,  as  your  modern  clipped  captains  are,  but  enveloped  in 
wig  and  regimentals,  as  a  general  should  be. — What  do  you  bid? 

Sir  Oliv.    [Aside  to  Moses. ~\  Bid  him  speak. 

Mos.    Mr.  Premium  would  have  you  speak. 

Chas.  Surf.  Why,  then,  he  shall  have  him  for  ten  pounds,  and 
I  'm  sure  that 's  not  dear  for  a  staff-officer. 

Sir  Oliv.  [Aside.}  Heaven  deliver  me  !  his  famous  uncle  Richard 
for  ten  pounds  !  —  [Aloud.}  Very  well,  sir,  I  take  him  at  that. 

Chas.  Surf.  Careless,  knock  down  my  uncle  Richard.  —  Here, 
now,  is  a  maiden  sister  of  his,  my  great-aunt  Deborah,  done  by 
Kneller  thought  to  be  in  his  best  manner,  and  a  very  formidable 
likeness.  There  she  is,  you  see,  a  shepherdess  feeding  her  flock. 
You  shall  have  her  for  five  pounds  ten  —  the  sheep  are  worth  the 
money. 

Sir  Oliv.  [Aside.}  Ah !  poor  Deborah  !  a  woman  who  set  such 
a  value  on  herself !  —  [Aloud.}  Five  pounds  ten  —  she  's  mine. 


THE  FAMILY  PICTURES. 


A    COMEDY.  269 

CJias.  Surf.  Knock  down  my  aunt  Deborah !  —  Here,  now,  are 
two  that  were  a  sort  of  cousins  of  theirs.  —  You  see,  Moses, 
these  pictures  were  done  some  time  ago,  when  beaux  wore  wigs, 
and  the  ladies  their  own  hair. 

Sir  Oliv.  Yes,  truly,  head-dresses  appear  to  have  been  a  little 
lower  in  those  days. 

Chas.  Surf.    Well,  take  that  couple  for  the  same. 

Mos.    'T  is  a  good  bargain. 

Chas.  Surf.  Careless !  —  This,  now,  is  a  grandfather  of  my 
mother's,  a  learned  judge,  well  known  on  the  western  circuit.  — 
What  do  you  rate  him  at,  Moses? 

Mos.    Four  guineas. 

Chas.  Surf.  Four  guineas !  Gad's  life,  you  don't  bid  me  the 
price  of  his  wig.  —  Mr.  Premium,  you  have  more  respect  for  the 
woolsack;  do  let  us  knock  his  lordship  down  at  fifteen. 

Sir  Oliv.    By  all  means. 

Care.    Gone  ! 

Chas.  Surf.  And  there  are  two  brothers  of  his,  William  and 
Walter  Blunt,  Esquires,  both  members  of  parliament,  and  noted 
speakers  ;  and,  what 's  very  extraordinary,  I  believe,  this  is  the 
first  time  they  were  ever  bought  or  sold. 

Sir  Oliv.  That  is  very  extraordinary,  indeed  !  I  '11  take  them  at 
your  own  price,  for  the  honor  of  parliament. 

Care.  Well  said,  little  Premium  !  —  I  '11  knock  them  down  at 
forty. 

Chas.  Surf.  Here's  a  jolly  fellow — I  don't  know  what  relation, 
but  he  was  mayor  of  Manchester :  take  him  at  eight  pounds. 

Sir  Oliv.     No,  no ;  six  will  do  for  the  mayor. 

Chas.  Surf.  Come,  make  it  guineas,  and  I  '11  throw  you  the  two 
aldermen  there  into  the  bargain. 


2/0  THE  SCHOOL   FOR  SCANDAL. 

Sir  Oliv.    They  're  mine. 

C/ias.  Surf.  Careless,  knock  down  the  mayor  and  aldermen. — 
But,  plague  on 't !  we  shall  be  all  day  retailing  in  this  manner : 
do  let  lis  deal  wholesale ;  what  say  you,  little  Premium  ?  Give 
me  three  hundred  pounds  for  the  rest  of  the  family  in  the  lump. 

Care.    Ay,  ay,  that  will  be  the  best  way. 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  well,  anything  to  accommodate  you ;  they  are 
mine.  But  there  is  one  portrait  which  you  have  always  passed 
over. 

Care.   What,  that  ill-looking  little  fellow  over  the  settee? 

Sir  Oliv.  Yes,  sir,  I  mean  that ;  though  I  don't  think  him  so  ill- 
looking  a  little  fellow,  by  any  means. 

Chas.  Surf.  What,  that  ?  —  Oh  ;  that 's  my  uncle  Oliver  !  't  was 
done  before  he  went  to  India. 

Care.  Your  uncle  Oliver !  —  Gad,  then  you  '11  never  be  friends, 
Charles.  That,  now,  to  me,  is  as  stern  a  looking  rogue  as  ever 
I  saw ;  an  unforgiving  eye,  and  a  damned  disinheriting  counte- 
nance !  an  inveterate  knave,  depend  on 't.  Don't  you  think  so, 
little  Premium  ? 

Sir  Oliv.  Upon  my  soul,  sir,  I  do  not ;  I  think  it  is  as  honest 
a  looking  face  as  any  in  the  room,  dead  or  alive.  —  But  I  suppose 
uncle  Oliver  goes  with  the  rest  of  the  lumber  ? 

Chas.  Surf.  No,  hang  it !  I  '11  npt  part  with  poor  Noll.  The 
old  fellow  has  been  very  good  to  me,  and,  egad,  I  '11  keep  his 
picture  while  I  've  a  room  to  put  it  in. 

Sir  Oliv.  [Aside.]  The  rogue  's  my  nephew  after  all !  —  [Aloud.] 
But,  sir  I  have  somehow  taken  a  fancy  to  that  picture. 

Chas.  Surf.  I  'm  sorry  for 't,  for  you  certainly  will  not  have  it. 
Oons,  have  n't  you  got  enough  of  them  ? 

Sir  Oliv.    [Aside.]    I   forgive   him   everything  !  — [Aloud.]      But, 


A    COMEDY.  271 

sir,  when  I  take  a  whim  in  my  head,  I  don't  value  money.  I  '11 
give  you  as  much  for  that  as  for  all  the  rest. 

Chas.  Surf.  Don't  tease  me,  master  broker ;  I  tell  you  I  '11  not 
part  with  it,  and  there 's  an  end  of  it. 

Sir  Oliv.  [Aside.}  How  like  his  father  the  dog  is  ?  —  [Aland,] 
Well,  well,  I  have  done.  —  [Aside.}  I  did  not  perceive  it  before, 
but  I  think  I  never  saw  such  a  striking  resemblance. —  [Aloud] 
Here  is  a  draft  for  your  sum. 

CJias.  Suif.    Why,  't  is  for  eight  hundred  pounds ! 

Sir  Oliv.    You  will  not  let  Sir  Oliver  go  ? 

Chas.  Surf.    Zounds  !  no  !  I  tell  you  once  more. 

Sir  Oliv.  Then  never  mind  the  difference,  we  '11  balance  that 
another  time. — But  give  me  your  hand  on  the  bargain;  you  are 
an  honest  fellow,  Charles — I  beg  pardon,  sir,  for  being  so  free. — 
Come,  Moses. 

Chas.  Surf.  Egad,  this  is  a  whimsical  old  fellow!  —  But  hark'ee 
Premium,  you  '11  prepare  lodgings  for  these  gentlemen. 

Sir  Oliv.    Yes,  yes,  I  '11  send  for  them  in  a  day  or  two. 

Chas.  Surf.  But  hold ;  do  now  send  a  genteel  conveyance  for 
them,  for,  I  assure  you,  they  were  most  of  them  used  to  ride  in 
their  own  carriages. 

Sir  Oliv.    I  will,  I  will, —  for  all  but  Oliver. 

Chas.  Surf.    Ay,  all  but  the  little  nabob. 

Sir  Oliv.    You  're  fixed  on  that  ? 

Chas.  Surf.    Peremptorily. 

Sir  Oliv  [Asi'de]  A  dear  extravagant  rogue  !  —  [Alottd.]  Good 
day!  —  Come,  Moses.  —  [Aside]  Let  me  hear  now  who  dares  call 
him  profligate  !  [Exit  with  MOSES. 

Care.  Why,  this  is  the  oddest  genius  of  the  sort  I  ever  met 
with! 


2/2'  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

Chas.  Surf.  Egad,  he  's  the  prince  of  brokers,  I  think.  I  won- 
der how  the  devil  Moses  got  acquainted  with  so  honest  a  fellow. 
—  Ha!  here 's  Rowley.  —  Do,  Careless,  say  I'll  join  the  company 
in  a  few  moments. 

Care.  I  will  —  but  don't  let  that  old  blockhead  persuade  you 
to  squander  any  of  that  money  on  old  musty  debts,  or  any  such 
nonsense  ;  for  tradesmen,  Charles,  are  the  most  exorbitant  fellows. 

Chas.  Surf.  Very  true,  and  paying  them  is  only  encouraging  them. 

Care.    Nothing  else. 

CJias.  Surf.  Ay,  ay,  never  fear.  —  \_Exit  CARELESS.]  So  !  this  was 
an  odd  old  fellow,  indeed.  —  Let  me  see,  two-thirds  of  this  is 
mine  by  right,  five  hundred  and  thirty  odd  pounds.  'Fore 
Heaven  !  I  find  one's  ancestors  are  more  valuable  relations  than  I 
took  them  for! — Ladies  and  gentlemen,  your  most  obedient  and 
very  grateful  servant. —  \Bows  ceremoniously  to  tlie  pictures. 

Enter  ROWLEY. 

Ha  !  old  Rowley!  egad,  you  are  just  come  in  time  to  take  leave 
of  your  old  acquaintance. 

Roiv.  Yes,  I  heard  they  were  a-going.  But  I  wonder  you  can 
have  such  spirits  under  so  many  distresses. 

Chas.  Surf.  Why,  there  's  the  point !  my  distresses  are  so  many, 
that  I  can't  afford  to  part  with  my  spirits ;  but  I  shall  be  rich  and 
splenetic,  all  in  good  time.  However,  I  suppose  you  are  surprised 
that  I  am  not  more  sorrowful  at  parting  with  so  many  near  relations  : 
to  be  sure,  'tis  very  affecting,  but  you  see  they  'never  move  a 
muscle,  so  why  should  I  ? 

Row.    There  's  no  making  you  serious  a  moment. 

Chas.  Surf.  Yes,  faith,  I  am  so  now.  Here,  my  honest  Rowley, 
here,  get  me  this  changed  directly,  and  take  a  hundred  pounds  of  it 
immediately  to  old  Stanley. 


A    COMEDY.  273 

Row.    A  hundred  pounds.     Consider  only 

C/ias.  Surf.  Gad's  life,  don't  talk  about  it !  poor  Stanley's  wants 
are  pressing,  and,  if  you  don't  make  haste,  we  shall  have  some  one 
call  that  has  a  better  right  to  the  money. 

Row.  Ah!  there's  the  point!  I  never  will  cease  dunning  you 
with  the  old  proverb 

C/ias.  Surf.  Be  just  before  you  're  generous.  —  Why,  so  I  would  if 
I  could  ;  but  Justice  is  an  old,  hobbling  beldame,  and  I  can't  get  her 
to  keep  pace  with  Generosity,  for  the  soul  of  me. 

Row.    Yet,  Charles,  believe  me,  one  hour's  reflection  — 

Chas.  Surf.  Ay,  ay,  it  's  very  true  ;  but,  hark'ee,  Rowley,  while  I 
have,  by  Heaven  I  '11  give :  so,  damn  your  economy  !  and  now  for 
hazard.  \Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.  —  Another  room  in  the  same. 
Enter  SIR    OLIVER    SURFACE   and  MOSES. 

Mos.  Well,  sir,  I  think,  as  Sir  Peter  said,  you  have  seen  Mr. 
Charles  in  high  glory  ;  't  is  great  pity  he  's  so  extravagant. 

Sir  Oliv.    True,  but  he  would  not  sell  my  picture. 

Mos.    And  loves  wine  and  women  so  much. 

Sir  Oliv.    But  he  would  not  sell  my  picture. 

Mos.    And  games  so  deep. 

Sir  Oliv.  But  he  would  not  sell  my  picture.  Oh,  here  's  Rowley. 
Enter  ROWLEY. 

Row.    So,  Sir  Oliver,  I  find  you  have  made  a  purchase 

Sir  Oliv.  Yes,  yes,  our  young'  rake  has  parted  with  his  ancestors 
like  old  tapestry. 

Row.    And  here  has  he  commissioned  me  to  re-deliver  you  part  of 


274  THE  SCHOOL   FOR  SCANDAL. 

the  purchase-money  —  I  mean,  though,  in  your  necessitous  character 
of  old  Stanley. 

Mos.    Ah  !  there  is  the  pity  of  all !  he  is  so  damned  charitable. 

Row.  And  I  left  a  hosier  and  two  tailors  in  the  hall,  who,  I  'm 
sure,  won't  be  paid,  and  this  hundred  would  satisfy  them. 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  well,  I  '11  pay  his  debts  and  his  benevolence  too. 
But  now  I  am  no  more  a  broker,  and  you  shall  introduce  me  to  the 
elder  brother  as  old  Stanley. 

Row.  Not  yet  awhile ;  Sir  Peter,  I  know,  means  to  call  there 
about  this  time. 

Enter  TRIP. 

Trip.  Oh,  gentlemen,  I  beg  pardon  for  not  showing  you  out :  this 
way  —  Moses,  a  word.  [Exit  with  MOSES. 

Sir  Oliv.  There 's  a  fellow  for  you !  Would  you  believe  it,  that 
puppy  intercepted  the  Jew  on  our  coming,  and  wanted  to  raise 
money  before  he  got  to  his  mas.ter ! 

Row.    Indeed ! 

Sir  Oliv.  Yes,  they  are  now  planning  an  annuity  business.  Ah, 
Master  Rowley,  in  my  days  servants  were  content  with  the  follies  of 
their  masters,  when  they  were  worn  a  little  threadbare  ;  but  now 
they  have  their  vices,  like  their  birthday  clothes,  with  the  gloss  on. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.  —  A  Library  in  JOSEPH  SURFACE'S  House. 
Enter  JOSEPH  SURFACE  and  SERVANT. 

Jos.  Surf.    No  letter  from  Lady  Teazle  ? 
Serv.    No,  sir. 
Jos.  Surf.     [Aside.~\     I    am    surprised    she    has   not    sent,  if   she 


A    COMEDY.  2/5 

is  prevented  from  coming.  Sir  Peter  certainly  does  not  suspect 
me.  Yet  I  wish  I  may  not  lose  the  heiress  though  the  scrape  I 
have  drawn  myself  into  with  the  wife  :  however,  Charles's  impru- 
dence and  bad  character  are  great  points  in  my  favor. 

[Knocking  heard  wit/tout. 

Ser.    Sir,  I  believe  that  must  be  Lady  Teazle. 

Jos.  Surf.  Hold !  See  whether  it  is  or  not,  before  you  go  to  the 
door :  I  have  a  particular  message  for  you  if  it  should  be  my  brother. 

Ser.  'Tis  her  ladyship,  sir;  she  always  leaves  her  chair  at  the 
milliner's  in  the  next  street. 

Jos.  Surf.  Stay,  stay  ;  draw  that  screen  before  the  window  —  that 
will  do;  —  my  opposite  neighbor  is  a  maiden  lady  of  so  curious  a 
temper.  —  [SERVANT  draws  the  screen,  and  e.vit.}  I  have  a  difficult 
hand  to  play  in  this  affair.  Lady  Teazle  has  lately  suspected  my 
views  on  Maria ;  but  she  must  by  no  means  be  let  into  that  secret,  — 
at  least  till  I  have  her  more  in  my  power. 

Enter  LADY  TEAZLE. 

Lady  Teas.  What,  sentiment  in  soliloquy  now  ?  Have  you  been 
very  impatient  ?  O  Lud  !  don't  pretend  to  look  grave.  I  vow  I 
could  n't  come  before. 

Jos.  Surf.  O  madam,  punctuality  is  a  species  of  constancy,  very 
unfashionable  in  a  lady  of  quality. 

[Places  chairs  and  sits  after  LADY  TEAZLE  is  seated.} 

Lady  Teas.  Upon  my  word,  you  ought  to  pity  me.  Do  you  know 
Sir  Peter  has  grown  so  ill-natured  to  me  of  late,  and  so  jealous  of 
Charles  too  — that 's  the  best  of  the  story,  is  n't  it  ? 

Jos.  Surf.    I  am  glad  my  scandalous  friends  keep  that  up.    [Aside. 

Lady  Teas.  I  am  sure  I  wish  he  would  let  Maria  marry  him,  and 
then  perhaps  he  would  be  convinced  ;  don't  you,  Mr.  Surface  ? 

Jos.  Surf.    [Aside.}    Indeed  I  do  not. — [Aloud.}    Oh,  certainly  I 


2/6  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

do  !  for  then  my  dear  Lady  Teazle  would  also  be  convinced  how 
wrong  her  suspicions  were  of  my  having  any  design  on  the  silly 
girl. 

Lady  Teas.  Well,  well,  I  'm  inclined  to  believe  you.  But  isn't  it 
provoking,  to  have  the  most  ill-natured  things  said  of  one  ?  And 
there  's  my  friend  Lady  Sneerwell  has  circulated  I  don't  know  how 
many  scandalous  tales  of  me,  and  all  without  any  foundation  too ;  — 
that 's  what  vexes  me. 

Jos.  Surf.  Ay,  madam,  to  be  sure,  that  is  the  provoking  circum- 
stance —  without  foundation ;  yes,  yes,  there 's  the  mortification, 
indeed ;  for,  when  a  scandalous  story  is  believed  against  one,  there 
certainly  is  no  comfort  like  the  consciousness  of  having  deserved  it. 

Lady  Teaz.  No,  to  be  sure,  then  I  'd  forgive  their  malice ;  but  to 
attack  me,  who  am  really  so  innocent,  and  who  never  say  an  ill- 
natured  thing  of  anybody  —  that  is,  of  any  friend ;  and  then  Sir 
Peter,  too,  to  have  him  so  peevish,  and  so  suspicious,  when  I  know 
the  integrity  of  my  own  heart  —  indeed  't  is  monstrous  ! 

Jos.  Surf.  But,  my  dear  Lady  Teazle,  't  is  your  own  fault  if  you 
suffer  it.  When  a  husband  entertains  a  groundless  suspicion  of  his 
wife,  and  withdraws  his  confidence  from  her,  the  original  compact  is 
broken,  and  she  owes  it  to  the  honor  of  her  sex  to  endeavor  to  out- 
wit him. 

Lady  Teaz.  Indeed  !  —  So  that,  if  he  suspects  me  without  cause, 
it  follows,  that  the  best  way  of  curing  his  jealousy  is  to  give  him 
reason  for 't  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  Undoubtedly  —  for  your  husband  should  never  be 
deceived  in  you  :  and  in  that  case  it  becomes  you  to  be  frail  in  com- 
pliment to  his  discernment. 

Lady  Teaz.  To  be  sure,  what  you  say  is  very  reasonable,  and 
when  the  consciousness  of  my  innocence  • • 


A    COMEDY.  277 

Jos.  Surf.  Ah,  my  dear  madam,  there  is  the  great  mistake  !  't  is 
this  very  conscious  innocence  that  is  of  the  greatest  prejudice  to 
you.  What  is  it  makes  you  negligent  of  forms,  and  careless  of  the 
world's  opinion?  why,  the  consciousness  of  .your  own  innocence. 
What  makes  you  thoughtless  in  your  conduct  and  apt  to  run  into  a 
thousand  little  imprudences  ?  why,  the  consciousness  of  your  own 
innocence.  What  makes  you  impatient  of  Sir  Peter's  temper,  and 
outrageous  at  his  suspicions  ?  why,  the  consciousness  of  your  inno- 
cence. 

Lady  Teas.    'T  is  very  true  ! 

Jos.  Surf.-  Now,  my  dear  Lady  Teazle,  if  you  would  but  once 
make  a  trifling  faux  pas,  you  can't  conceive  how  cautious  you  would 
grow,  and  how  ready  to  humor  and  agree  with  your  husband. 

Lady  Teas.    Do  you  think  so  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  Oh,  I  am  sure  on  't ;  and  then  you  would  find  all 
scandal  would  cease  at  once,  for — in  short,  your  character  at  present 
is  like  a  person  in  a  plethora,  absolutely  dying  from  too  much  health. 

Lady  Teas.  So,  so ;  then  I  perceive  your  prescription  is,  that 
I  must  sin  in  my  own  defence,  and  part  with  my  virtue  to  pre- 
serve my  reputation  ? 

Jos.  Surf.    Exactly  so,  upon  my  credit,  ma'am. 

Lady  Teas.  Well,  certainly  this  is  the  oddest  doctrine,  and  the 
newest  receipt  for  avoiding  calumny ! 

Jos.  Surf.  An  infallible  one,  believe  me.  Prudence,  like  expe- 
rience, must  be  paid  for. 

Lady  Teaz.    Why,  if  my  understanding  were  once  convinced 

Jos.  Surf.  Oh,  certainly,  madam,  your  understanding  should  be 
convinced.  Yes,  yes, —  Heaven  forbid  I  should  persuade  you  to 
do  anything  you  thought  wrong.  No,  no,  I  have  too  much  honor 
to  desire  it. 


278  THE  SCHOOL   FOR  SCANDAL. 

Lady  Teaz.  Don't  you  think  we  may  as  well  leave  honor  out 
of  the  argument?  -[Rises. 

Jos.  Surf.  Ah,  the  ill  effects  of  your  country  education,  I  see, 
still  remain  with  yoa 

Lady  Teaz.  I  doubt  they  do  indeed  ;  and  I  will  fairly  own  to 
you,  that  if  I  could  be  persuaded  to  do  wrong,  it  would  be  by 
Sir  Peter's  ill  usage  sooner  than  your  honorable  logic,  after  all. 

Jos.  Surf.    Then,  by  this  hand,  which  he  is  unworthy  of 

[  Taking  her  hand. 
Re-enter  SERVANT. 

'S  death,  you  blockhead  —  what  do  you  want  ? 

Ser.  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  I  thought  you  would  not 
choose  Sir  Peter  to  come  up  without  announcing  him. 

Jos.  Surf.    Sir  Peter  !  —  Oons  —  the  devil ! 

Lady  Teaz.    Sir  Peter !  O  Lud !  I  'm  ruined !  I  'm  ruined ! 

Ser.    Sir,  'twas  n't  I  let  him  in. 

Lady  Teaz.  Oh!  I'm  quite  undone !  What  will  become  of  me? 
Now,  Mr.  Logic  —  Oh  !  mercy,  sir,  he  's  on  the  stairs  —  I  '11  get 

behind  here  —  and  if  ever  I'm  so  imprudent  again 

[Goes  behind  the  screen. 

Jos.  Surf.    Give  me  that  book. 

[Sits  down.     SERVANT  pretends  to  adjust  his  chair. 

Enter  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE. 

Sir  Peter.  Ay,  ever  improving  himself  —  Mr.  Surface,  Mr. 
Surface [Pats  JOSEPH  on  the  shoulder. 

Jos.  Surf.  Oh,  my  dear  Sir  Peter,  I  beg  your  pardon  —  [Gaping, 
throws  away  the  book.}  I  have  been  dozing  over  a  stupid  book. 
Well,  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  this  call.  You  haven't  been 
here,  I  believe,  since  I  fitted  up  this  room.  Books,  you  know, 
are  the  only  things  in  which  I  am  a  coxcomb. 


Miss  ELLEN  TERRY  AND  MR.  HENRY  IRVING  AS  LADY  TEAZLE  AND 
JOSEPH  SURFACE. 


A    COMEDY.  279 

Sir  Peter.  T  is  very  neat  indeed. — Well,  well,  that's  proper; 
and  you  can  make  even  your  screen  a  source  of  knowledge  — 
hung,  I  perceive,  with  maps. 

Jos.  Surf.    Oh,  yes,   I  find  great  use  in  that  screen. 
Sir  Peter.    I    dare    say    you    must,  certainly,  when  you  want  to 
find  anything  in  a  hurry. 

Jos.  Surf.    Ay,  or  to  hide  anything  in  a  hurry  either.       \Aside. 
Sir  Peter.    Well,  I  have  a  little  private  business  — 

Jos.  Surf.    You  need  not  stay.  [To  SERVANT. 

Ser.  No,  sir.  [Exit. 

Jos.  Surf.    Here  's  a  chair,  Sir  Peter  —  I  beg  — 
Sir  Peter.   Well,  now  we  are  alone,  there  is  a  subject,  my  dear 
friend,  on  which  I  wish    to    unburden    my  mind    to  you  —  a  point 
of  the  greatest  moment    to    my  peace ;    in    short,  my  good  friend, 
Lady  Teazle's  conduct  of  late  has  made  me  very  unhappy. 

Jos.  Surf.    Indeed !  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it. 

Sir  Peter.  Yes,  'tis  but  too  plain  she  has  not  the  least  regard 
for  me  ;  but,  what 's  worse,  I  have  pretty  good  authority  to 
suppose  she  has  formed  an  attachment  to  another. 

Jos.  Surf.    Indeed  !  you  astonish  me  ! 

Sir  Peter.  Yes  !  and,  between  ourselves,  I  think  I  've  discovered 
the  person. 

Jos.  Surf.    How  !  you  alarm  me  exceedingly. 

Sir  Peter.  Ay,  my  dear  friend,  I  knew  you  would  sympathize 
with  me  ! 

Jos.  Surf.  Yes,  believe  me,  Sir  Peter,  such  a  discovery  would 
hurt  me  just  as  much  as  it  would  you. 

Sir  Peter.  I  am  convinced  of  it.  —  Ah  !  it  is  a  happiness  to  have 
a  friend  whom  we  can  trust  even  with  one's  family  secrets.  But 
have  you  no  guess  who  I  mean? 


280  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL, 

Jos.  Surf.  I  have  n't  the  most  distant  idea.  It  can't  be  Sir 
Benjamin  Backbite ! 

Sir  Peter.    Oh,  no !     What  say  you  to  Charles  ? 

Jos.  Surf.    My  brother !  impossible ! 

Sir  Peter.  Oh,  my  dear  friend,  the  goodness  of  your  own  heart 
misleads  you.  You  judge  of  others  by  yourself. 

Jos.  Surf.  Certainly,  Sir  Peter,  the  heart  that  is  conscious  of 
its  own  integrity  is  ever  slow  to  credit  another's  treachery. 

Sir  Peter.  True  ;  but  your  brother  has  no  sentiment  —  you  never 
hear  him  talk  so. 

Jos.  Surf.  Yet  I  can't  but  think  Lady  Teazle  herself  has  too 
much  principle. 

Sir  Peter.  Ay  ;  but  what  is  principle  against  the  flattery  cf  a 
handsome,  lively  young  fellow? 

Jos.  Surf.    That's  very  true. 

Sir  Peter.  And  then,  you  know,  the  difference  of  our  ages 
makes  it  very  improbable  that  she  should  have  any  great  affection 
for  me ;  and  if  she  were  to  be  frail,  and  I  were  to  make  it 
public,  why  the  town  would  only  laugh  at  me,  the  foolish  old 
bachelor,  who  had  married  a  girl. 

Jos.  Surf.    That 's   true,  to  be  sure  —  they  would  laugh. 

Sir  Peter.  Laugh  !  ay,  and  make  ballads,  and  paragraphs,  and 
the  devil  knows  what  of  me. 

Jos.  Surf.    No,  —  you  must  never  make  it  public. 
Sir  Peter.    But  then  again  —  that  the  nephew  of  my  old  friend, 
Sir  Oliver,  should  be  the  person  to  attempt  such  a  wrong,  hurts 
me  more  nearly. 

Jos.  Surf.  Ay,  there  's  the  point.  When  ingratitude  barbs  the 
dart  of  injury,  the  wound  has  double  danger  in  it. 

Sir  Peter.    Ay  —  I,   thac   was,    in    a   manner,  left  his  guardian: 


A    COMEDY.  28l 

in  whose  house   he  had   been   so  often   entertained ;  who  never  in 
my  life  denied  him  —  my  advice  ! 

Jos.  Surf.  Oh,  't  is  not  to  be  credited  !  There  may  be  a  man 
capable  of  such  baseness,  to  be  sure ;  but,  for  my  part,  till  you 
can  give  me  positive  proofs,  I  cannot  but  doubt  it.  However, 
if  it  should  be  proved  on  him,  he  is  no  longer  a  brother  of 
mine  —  I  disclaim  kindred  with  him  :  for  the  man  who  can  break 
the  laws  of  hospitality,  and  tempt  the  wife  of  his  friend,  deserves 
to  be  branded  as  the  pest  of  society. 

Sir  Peter.  What  a  difference  there  is  between  you !  What 
noble  sentiments ! 

Jos.  Surf.    Yet  I   cannot   suspect    Lady  Teazle's  honor. 

Sir  Peter.  I  am  sure  I  wish  to  think  well  of  her,  and  to  re- 
move all  ground  of  quarrel  between  us.  She  has  lately  reproached 
me  more  than  once  with  having  made  no  settlement  on  her ;  and, 
in  our  last  quarrel,  she  almost  hinted  that  she  should  not  break 
her  heart  if  I  was  dead.  Now,  as  we  seem  to  differ  in  our 
ideas  of  expense,  I  have  resolved  she  shall  have  her  own  way, 
and  be  her  own  mistress  in  that  respect  for  the  future ;  and,  if 
I  were  to  die,  she  will  find  I  have  not  been  inattentive  to  her 
interest  while  living.  Here,  my  friend,  are  the  drafts  of  two 
deeds,  which  I  wish  to  have  your  opinion  on.  —  By  one,  she  will 
enjoy  eight  hundred  a  year  independent  while  I  live ;  and  by 
the  other,  the  bulk  of  my  fortune  at  my  death. 

Jos.  Surf.  This  conduct,  Sir  Peter,  is  indeed  truly  generous.  — 
{Aside.}  I  wish  it  may  not  corrupt  my  pupil. 

Sir  Peter.  Yes,  I  am  determined  she  shall  have  no  cause  to 
complain,  though  I  would  not  have  her  acquainted  with  the  latter 
instance  of  my  affection  yet  awhile. 

Jos.  Surf.    Nor   I,   if  I   could   help  it.  \_Aside. 


282  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

Sir  Peter.  And  now,  my  dear  friend,  if  you  please,  we  will  talk 
over  the  situation  of  your  hopes  with  Maria. 

Jos.  Surf.  [Softly.]  Oh,  no,  Sir  Peter;  another  time,  if  you 
please. 

Sir  Peter.  I  am  sensibly  chagrined  at  the  little  progress  you 
seem  to  make  in  her  affections. 

Jos.  Surf.  [Softly.]  I  beg  you  will  not  mention  it.  What  are 
my  disappointments  when  your  happiness  is  in  debate !  —  [Aside.] 
'Sdeath,  I  shall  be  ruined  every  way ! 

Sir  Peter.  And  though  you  are  so  averse  to  my  acquainting  Lady 
Teazle  with  your  passion  for  Maria,  I  'm  sure  she 's  not  your 
enemy  in  the  affair. 

Jos.  Surf.  Pray,  Sir  Peter,  now  oblige  me.  I  am  really  too 
much  affected  by  the  subject  we  have  been  speaking  of,  to  bestow 
a  thought  on  my  own  concerns.  The  man  who  is  entrusted  with 
his  friend's  distresses  can  never 

Re  Enter  SERVANT. 
Well,  sir  ? 

Scr.  Your  brother,  sir,  is  speaking  to  a  gentleman  in  the 
street,  and  says  he  knows  you  are  within. 

Jos.  Surf.  'Sdeath,  blockhead,  I  'm  not  within  —  I  'm  out  for 
the  day. 

Sir  Peter.  Stay — hold — a  thought  has  struck  me  :  —  you  shall 
be  at  home. 

Jos.  Surf.  Well,  well,  let  him  up.  —  [Exit  SERVANT.]  He  '11 
interrupt  Sir  Peter,  however.  [Aside. 

Sir  Peter.  Now,  my  good  friend,  oblige  me,  I  entreat  you.  — 
Before  Charles  conies,  let  me  conceal  myself  somewhere,  —  then  do 
you  tax  him  on  the  point  we  have  been  talking,  and  his  answer 
may  satisfy  me  at  once. 


A    COMEDY.  283 

Jos.  Surf.  Oh,  fie,  Sir  Peter !  would  you  have  me  join  in  so 
mean  a  trick?  —  to  trepan  my  brother  too? 

Sir  Peter.  Nay,  you  tell  me  you  are  sure  he  is  innocent ;  if 
so,  you  do  him  the  greatest  service  by  giving  him  an  opportunity 
to  clear  himself,  and  you  will  set  my  heart  at  rest.  Come,  you 
shall  not  refuse  me :  [Going  ?//,]  here  behind  the  screen  will  be 
—  Hey !  what  the  devil !  there  seems  to  be  one  listener  here 
already  —  I  '11  swear  I  saw  a  petticoat ! 

Jos.  Surf.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  Well,  this  is  ridiculous  enough.  I  '11 
tell  you,  Sir  Peter,  though  I  hold  a  man  of  intrigue  to  be  a  most 
despicable  character,  yet,  you  know,  it  does  not  follow  that  one  is 
to  be  an  absolute  Joseph  either !  Hark  'ee,  't  is  a  little  French 
milliner,  —  a  silly  rogue  that  plagues  me;  —  and  having  some  char- 
acter to  lose,  on  your  coming,  sir,  she  ran  behind  the  screen. 

Sir  Peter.    Ah,  Joseph  !  Joseph  !     Did  I  ever  think  that  you  — 
But,    egad,    she    has    overheard    all    I    have    been    saying   of    my 
wife. 

Jos.  Surf.  Oh,  't  will  never  go  any  farther,  you  may  depend 
upon  it ! 

Sir  Peter.  No  !  then,  faith,  let  her  hear  it  out.  —  Here 's  a 
closet  will  do  as  well. 

Jos.  Surf.    Well,  go  in  there. 

Sir  Peter.    Sly  rogue  !  sly  rogue  !  [Goes  into  the  closet. 

Jos.  Surf.  A  narrow  escape,  indeed !  and  a  curious  situation 
I  'm  in,  to  part  man  and  wife  in  this  manner. 

Lady  Teas.    \Peeping^\    Could  n't  I  steal  off  ? 

Jos.  Surf.    Keep  close,  my  angel ! 

Sir  Peter.    [Peeping.']    Joseph,  tax  him  home. 

Jos.  Surf.    Back,  my  dear  friend  ! 

Lady  Teas.    \Peeping.\    Could  n't  you  lock  Sir  Peter  in  ? 


284  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

Jos.  Surf.    Be  still,  my  life ! 

Sir  Peter.    [Peeping.}  You're  sure  the  little  milliner  won't  blab? 

Jos.  Surf.  In,  in,  my  dear  Sir  Peter !  —  'Fore  Gad,  I  wish  I 
had  a  key  to  the  door. 

Enter  CHARLES  SURFACE. 

Chas.  Surf.  Holla!  brother,  what  has  been  the  matter?  Your 
fellow  would  not  let  me  up  at  first.  What !  have  you  had  a  Jew 
or  a  wench  with  you? 

Jos.  Surf.    Neither,  brother,  I  assure  you. 

Chas.  Surf.  But  what  has  made  Sir  Peter  steal  off  ?  I  thought 
he  had  been  with  you. 

Jos.  Surf.  He  was,  brother;  but,  hearing  you  were  coming,  he 
did  not  choose  to  stay. 

Chas.  Surf.  What !  was  the  old  gentleman  afraid  I  wanted  to 
borrow  money  of  him? 

Jos.  Surf.  No,  sir:  but  I  am  sorry  to  find,  Charles,  you  have 
lately  given  that  worthy  man  grounds  for  great  uneasiness. 

Chas.  Surf.  Yes,  they  tell  me  I  do  that  to  a  great  many  worthy 
men.  —  But  how  so,  pray  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  To  be  plain  with  you,  brother,  —  he  thinks  you  are 
endeavoring  to  gain  Lady  Teazle's  affections  from  him. 

Chas.  Surf.  Who,  I  ?  O  Lud !  not  I,  upon  my  word.  —  Ha ! 
ha!  ha!  ha!  so  the  old  fellow  has  found  out  that  he  has  got  a 
young  wife,  has  he  ?  —  or,  what  is  worse,  Lady  Teazle  has  found 
out  she  has  an  old  husband  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  This  is  no  subject  to  jest  on,  brother.  He  who  can 
laugh 

Chas.  Surf.  True,  true,  as  you  were  going  to  say  —  then,  seri- 
ously, I  never  had  the  least  idea  of  what  you  charge  me  with, 
upon  my  honor. 


A    COMEDY.  285 

Jos.  Surf.    Well,  it  will  give  Sir  Peter  great  satisfaction  to  hear 

this.  {Raising  Jtis  voice. 

Chas.  Surf.    To    be    sure,   I    once    thought    the    lady    seemed  to 

have  taken  a  fancy  to  me  ;    but,  upon  my  soul,  I  never  gave  her  the 

least  encouragement.  —  Besides,  you  know  my  attachment  to  Maria. 

Jos.  Surf.    But  sure,  brother,  even  if  Lady  Teazle  had  betrayed 

the  fondest  partiality  for  you 

Chas.  Surf.  Why,  look  'ee,  Joseph,  I  hope  I  shall  never  delibe- 
rately do  a  dishonorable  action  ;  but  if  a  pretty  woman  was  pur- 
posely to  throw  herself  in  my  way  —  and  that  pretty  woman 
married  to  a  man  old  enough  to  be  her  father 

Jos.  Surf.    Well  ! 
Chas.  Surf.    Why,  I  believe  I  should  be  obliged  to 

Jos.  Surf.    What  ? 

Chas.  Surf.  To  borrow  a  little  of  your  morality,  that 's  all.  But, 
brother,  do  you  know  now  that  you  surprise  me  exceedingly,  by 
naming  me  with  Lady  Teazle ;  for,  i'  faith,  I  always  understood  you 
were  her  favorite. 

Jos.  Surf.    Oh,  for  shame,  Charles !     This  retort  is  foolish. 
Chas.  Surf.    Nay,  I  swear  I  have  seen  you  exchange  such  signifi- 
cant glances 

Jos.  Surf.    Nay,  nay,  sir,  this  is  no  jest. 

Chas.  Surf.    Egad,  I  'm  serious !     Don't  you  remember  one  day, 
when  I  called  here 

Jos.  Surf.    Nay,  pr'ythee,  Charles 

Chas.  Surf.    And  found  you  together 

Jos.  Surf.    Zounds,  sir,  I  insist 

Chas.  Surf.    And  another  time  when  your  servant 

Jos  Surf.    Brother,  brother,  a  word  with  you.  —  [Aside.]     Gad,  I 
must  stop  him. 


286  THE  SCHOOL   FOR  SCANDAL. 

CJias.  Surf.    Informed,  I  say,  that 

Jos.  Surf.  Hush  !  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  Sir  Peter  has  overheard 
all  we  have  been  saying.  I  knew  you  would  clear  yourself,  or  I 
should  not  have  consented. 

CJias.  Surf.    How,  Sir  Peter  !     Where  is  he  ? 

Jos.  Surf.    Softly,  there  !  [Points  to  the  closet. 

Chas.  Surf.  Oh,  'fore  Heaven,  I  '11  have  him  out.  Sir  Peter, 
come  forth ! 

Jos.  Surf.    No,  no  — 

CJias.  Surf.  I  say,  Sir  Peter,  come  into  court.  —  [Pulls  in  SIR 
PETER.]  What!  my  old  guardian!  —  What!  turn  inquisitor,  and 
take  evidence  incog.  ?  Oh,  fie  !  Oh,  fie  ! 

Sir  Peter.  Give  me  your  hand,  Charles  —  I  believe  I  have  sus- 
pected you  wrongfully :  but  you  must  n't  be  angry  with  Joseph  — 
't  was  my  plan  ! 

Chas.  Surf.    Indeed. 

Sir  Peter.  But  I  acquit  you.  I  promise  you  I  don't  think  near 
so  ill  of  you  as  I  did  :  what  I  have  heard  has  given  me  great  sat- 
isfaction. 

CJias.  Surf.  Egad,  then,  't  was  lucky  you  did  n't  hear  any  more. 
Was  n't  it,  Joseph  ?  [Aside  to  JOSEPH. 

Sir  Peter.    Ah  !  you  would  have  retorted  on  him. 

Chas.  Surf.    Ah,  ay,  that  was  a  joke. 

Sir  Peter.   Yes,  yes,  I  know  his  honor  too  well. 

Chas.  Surf.  But  you  might  as  well  have  suspected  him  as  me  in 
this  matter,  for  all  that.  Might  n't  he,  Joseph  ?  [Aside  to  JOSEPH. 

Sir  Peter.    Well,  well,  I  believe  you. 
Jos.  Surf.    Would  they  were  both  out  of  the  room  !  [Aside. 

Sir  Peter.  And  in  future,  perhaps  we  may  not  be  such 
strangers. 


A    COMEDY.  287 

Re-Enter  SERVANT,  arid  whispers  JOSEPH  SURFACE. 

Ser,    Lady  Sneerwell  is  below,  and  says  she  will  come  up. 

Jos.  Surf.  Lady  Sneerwell !  Gad 's  life !  she  must  not  come 
here.  [Exit  SERVANT.]  Gentlemen,  I  beg  pardon  — I  must  wait  on 
you  down  stairs :  here  is  a  person  come  on  particular  business. 

Chas.  Surf.  Well,  you  can  see  him  in  another  room.  Sir  Peter 
and  I  have  not  met  a  long  time,  and  I  have  something  to  say  to  him. 

Jos.  Surf.  [Aside.]  They  must  not  be  left  together.  —  [Aloud.] 
I  '11  send  this  man  away,  and  return  directly.  —  [Aside  to  SIR  PETER.] 
Sir  Peter,  not  a  word  of  the  French  milliner. 

Sir  Peter.    [Aside  to  JOSEPH   SURFACE.]    I !  not  for  the  world ! 

—  [Exit  JOSEPH   SURFACE.]     Ah,   Charles,  if  you  associated  more 
with  your  brother,  one  might  indeed  hope  for  your  reformation.     He 
is  a  man  of  sentiment.  —  Well,  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  so  noble 
as  a  man  of  sentiment. 

Chas.  Surf.  Pshaw!  he  is  too  moral  by  half;  and  so  apprehensive 
of  his  good  name,  as  he  calls  it,  that  I  suppose  he  would  as  soon  let 
a  priest  into  his  house  as  a  girl. 

Sir  Peter.  No,  no,  —  come,  come,  —  you  wrong  him.  No,  no  ! 
Joseph  is  no  rake,  but  he  is  no  such  saint  either  in  that  respect.  — 
[Aside.]  I  have  a  great  mind  to  tell  him  —  we  should  have  such  a 
laugh  at  Joseph. 

Chas.  Sutf.  Oh,  hang  him !  he 's  a  very  anchorite,  a  young 
hermit. 

Sir  Peter.  Hark'ee  —  you  must  not  abuse  him:  he  may  chance 
to  hear  of  it  again,  I  promise  you. 

Chas.  Surf.    Why,  you  won't  tell  him  ? 

Sir  Peter,    No  —  but  —  this  way.  —  [Aside.]    Egad,  I'll  tell  him, 

—  [Aland]    Hark'ee  —  have   you   a   mind   to   have   a   good   laugh 
at  Joseph  ? 


288  THE  SCHOOL   FOR  SCANDAL. 

Chas.  Surf.    I  should  like  it  of  all  things. 

Sir  Peter.  Then,  i'  faith,  we  will !  —  I'll  be  quit  with  him  for  dis- 
covering me.  —  fie  had  a  girl  with  him  when  I  called.  [  Whispers. 

Chas.  Surf.    What !  Joseph  ?  you  jest. 

Sir  Peter.  Hush  !  —  a  little  French  milliner  —  and  the  best  of  the 
jest  is  —  she  is  in  the  room  now. 

Chas.  Surf.    The  devil  she  is  ! 

Sir  Peter.    Hush  !  I  tell  you.  [Points  to  the  screen. 

Clias.  Surf.    Behind  the  screen  !     'S  life,  let 's  unveil  her  ! 

Sir  Peter.    No,  no,  —  he 's  coming  :  —  you  sha'n't  indeed  ! 

Chas.  Surf.    Oh,  egad,  we  '11  have  a  peep  at  the  little  milliner  ! 

Sir  Peter.    Not  for  the  world  !  —  Joseph  will  never  forgive  me. 

Chas.  Surf.    I  '11  stand  by  you  — 

Sir  Peter.    Odds,  here  he  is  ! 

Re-Enter  JOSEPH  SURFACE  just  as  CHARLES  SURFACE  throws 
down  the  screen. 

CJias.  Surf.    Lady  Teazle,  by  all  that 's  wonderful. 

Sir  Peter.    Lady  Teazle,  by  all  that 's  damnable  ! 

Chas.  Surf.  Sir  Peter,  this  is  one  of  the  smartest  French  milliners 
I  ever  saw.  Egad,  you  seem  all  to  have  been  diverting  yourselves 
here  at  hide  and  seek,  and  I  don't  see  who  is  out  of  the  secret. 
Shall  I  beg  your  ladyship  to  inform  me?  Not  a  word!  —  Brother, 
will  you  be  pleased  to  explain  this  matter  ?  What !  is  Morality  dumb 
too  ?  —  Sir  Peter,  though  I  found  you  in  the  dark,  perhaps  you  are  not 
so  now!  All  mute!  —  Well  —  though  I  can  make  nothing  of  the 
affair,  I  suppose  you  perfectly  understand  one  another ;  so  I  will 
leave  you  to  yourselves. —  [Going.}  Brother,  I  'm  sorry  to  find  you 
have  given  that  worthy  man  grounds  for  so  much  uneasiness. —  Sir 
Peter  !  there  's  nothing  in  the  world  so  noble  as  a  man  of  sentiment ! 
[They  stand  for  some  time  looking  at  each  other.}  [Exit  CHARLES. 


A   COMEDY.  289 

Jos.  Surf.  Sir  Peter  —  notwithstanding  —  I  confess  —  that  ap- 
pearances are  against  me  —  if  you  will  afford  me  your  patience  —  I 
make  no  doubt  —  but  I  shall  explain  everything  to  your  satisfaction. 

Sir  Peter.    If  you  please,  sir. 

Jos.  Surf.  The  fact  is,  sir,  that  Lady  Teazle,  knowing  my  preten- 
sions to  your  ward  Maria  —  I  say,  sir,  Lady  Teazle,  being  apprehen- 
sive of  the  jealousy  of  your  temper  —  and  knowing  my  friendship  to 
the  farriily  —  she,  sir,  I  say  —  called  here  —  in  order  that  —  I  might 
explain  these  pretensions  —  but  on  your  coming  —  being  apprehen- 
sive—  as  I  said  —  of  your  jealousy  —  she  withdrew  —  and  this, 
you  may  depend  on  it,  is  the  whole  truth  of  the  matter. 

Sir  Peter.  A  very  clear  account,  upon  my  word  ;  and  I  dare  swear 
the  lady  will  vouch  for  every  article  of  it. 

Lady  Teas.    For  not  one  word  of  it,  Sir  Peter ! 

Sir  Peter.  How  !  don't  you  think  it  worth  while  to  agree  in  the 
lie? 

Lady  Teas.  There  is  not  one  syllable  of  truth  in  what  that 
gentleman  has  told  you. 

Sir  Peter.    I  believe  you,  upon  my  soul,  ma'am  ! 

Jos.  Surf.  {Aside  to  LADY  TEAZLE.]  'Sdeath,  madam,  will  you 
betray  me  ? 

Lady  Teaz.  Good  Mr.  Hypocrite,  by  your  leave,  I  '11  speak  for 
myself. 

Sir  Peter.  Ay,  let  her  alone,  sir;  you'll  find  she'll  make  out 
a  better  story  than  you,  without  prompting. 

Lady  Teaz.  Hear  me,  Sir  Peter! — I  came  here  on  no  matter 
relating  to  your  ward,  and  even  ignorant  of  this  gentleman's  pre- 
tensions to  her.  But  I  came,  seduced  by  his  insidious  arguments,  at 
least  to  listen  to  his  pretended  passion,  if  not  to  sacrifice  your 
honor  to  his  baseness. 


2QO  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

Sir  Peter.    Now,  I  believe,  the  truth  is  coming,  indeed  ! 

Jos.  Surf.   The  woman  's  mad. 

Lady  Teas.  No,  sir  ;  she  has  recovered  her  senses,  and  your  own 
arts  have  furnished  her  with  the  means. —  Sir  Peter,  I  do  not  expect 
you  to  credit  me  —  but  the  tenderness  you  expressed  for  me,  when  I 
am  sure  you  could  not  think  I  was  a  witness  to  it,  has  so  penetrated 
to  my  heart,  that  had  I  left  the  place  without  the  shame  of  this 
discover}',  my  future  life  should  have  spoken  the  sincerity  of  my 
gratitude.  As  for  that  smooth-tongued  hypocrite,  who  would  have 
seduced  the  wife  of  his  too  credulous  friend,  while  he  affected 
honorable  addresses  to  his  ward  —  I  behold  him  now  in  a  light  so 
truly  despicable,  that  I  shall  never  again  respect  myself  for  having 
listened  to  him.  [Exit  LADY  TEAZLE. 
Jos.  Surf.  Notwithstanding  all  this,  Sir  Peter,  Heaven  knows 

Sir  Peter.    That  you  are  a  villain  !  and   so  I  leave  you  to  your 
conscience. 

Jos.  Surf.    You  arc  too  rash,  Sir  Peter ;  you  shall  hear  me.     The 
man  who  shuts  out  conviction  by  refusing  to 

Sir  Peter    Oh,  damn  your  sentiments  ! 

[Exeunt  SIR  PETER  and  JOSEPH  SURFACE,  talking. 


A    COMEDY.  291 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. —  The  Library  in  JOSEPH  SURFACE'S  House. 
Enter  JOSEPH  SURFACE  and  SERVANT. 

Jos.  Surf.  Mr.  Stanley  !  and  why  should  you  think  I  would  see 
him  ?  you  must  know  he  comes  to  ask  something. 

Ser.  Sir,  I  should  not  have  let  him  in,  but  that  Mr.  Rowley 
came  to  the  door  with  him. 

Jos.  Surf.  Psha !  blockhead  \  to  suppose  that  I  should  now  be 
in  a  temper  to  receive  visits  from  poor  relations  !  —  Well,  why 
don't  you  show  the  fellow  up  ? 

Ser.  I  will,  sir.  —  Why,  sir,  it  was  not  my  fault  that  Sir  Peter 
discovered  my  lady 

Jos.  Stiff.  Go,  fool !  —  \Exit  SERVANT.]  Sure  Fortune  never 
played  a  man  of  my  policy  such  a  trick  before!  My  character 
with  Sir  Peter,  my  hopes  with  Maria,  destroyed  in  a  moment  ! 
I  'm  in  a  rare  humor  to  listen  to  other  people's  distresses !  I 
sha'n't  be  able  to  bestow  even  a  benevolent  sentiment  on  Stanley.  — 
So  !  here  he  comes,  and  Rowley  with  him.  I  must  try  to  recover 
myself,  and  put  a  little  charity  into  my  face,  however.  \Exit. 

Enter  SIR  OLIVER  SURFACE  and  ROWLEY. 

Sir  Oliv.    What!  does  he  avoid  us?     That  was  he,  was  it  not? 

Roiv.  It  was,  sir.  But  I  doubt  you  are  come  a  little  too  abruptly. 
His  nerves  are  so  weak,  that  the  sight  of  a  poor  relation  may  be  too 
much  for  him.  I  should  have  gone  first  to  break  it  to  him. 

Sir  Oliv.  Oh,  plague  of  his  nerves  !  Yet  this  is  he  whom  Sir 
Peter  extols  as  a  man  of  the  most  benevolent  way  of  thinking ! 


292  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

Row.  As  to  his  way  of  thinking,  I  cannot  pretend  to  decide  ; 
for,  to  do  him  justice,  he  appears  to  have  as  much  speculative  be- 
nevolence as  any  private  gentleman  in  the  kingdom,  though  he  is 
seldom  so  sensual  as  to  indulge  himself  in  the  exercise  of  it. 

Sir  Oliv.  Yet  he  has  a  string  of  charitable  sentiments  at  his 
fingers'  ends, 

Row.  Or,  rather,  at  his  tongue's  end,  Sir  Oliver  ;  for  I  believe 
there  is  no  sentiment  he  has  such  faith  in  as  that  Charity  begins 
at  home. 

Sir  Oliv.  And  his,  I  presume,  is  of  that  domestic  sort  which 
never  stirs  abroad  at  all. 

Row.  I  doubt  you  '11  find  it  so  ;  —  but  he's  coming.  I  mustn't 
seem  to  interrupt  you ;  and  you  know,  immediately  as  you 
leave  him,  I  come  in  to  announce  your  arrival  in  your  real 
character. 

Sir  Oliv.    True  ;  and  afterwards  you  '11  meet  me  at  Sir  Peter's. 

Row.    Without  losing  a  moment.  \Exit. 

Sir  Oliv.    I  don't  like  the  complaisance  of  his  features. 

Re-Enter  JOSEPH  SURFACE. 

Jos.  Surf.  Sir,  I  beg  you  ten  thousand  pardons  for  keeping 
you  a  moment  waiting.  —  Mr.  Stanley,  I  presume. 

Sir  Oliv.   At  your  service. 

Jos.  Surf.  Sir,  I  beg  you  will  do  me  the  honor  to  sit  down  — 
I  entreat  you,  sir 

Sir  Oliv.  Dear  sir  —  there's  no  occasion.  [Aside.~]  Too  civil  by 
half! 

Jos.  Surf.  I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing  you,  Mr.  Stanley; 
but  I  am  extremely  happy  to  see  you  look  so  well.  You  were  nearly 
related  to  my  mother,  I  think,  Mr.  Stanley  ? 

Sir  Oliv.    I  was,  sir ;  so  nearly  that  my  present  poverty,  I  fear, 


A    COMEDY.  293 

may  do  discredit  to  her  wealthy  children,  else  I   should  not  have 
presumed  to  trouble  you. 

Jos.  Surf.  Dear  sir,  there  needs  no  apology ;  —  he  that  is  in 
distress,  though  a  stranger,  has  a  right  to  claim  kindred  with  the 
wealthy.  1  am  sure  I  wish  I  was  one  of  that  class,  and  had  it  in  my 
power  to  offer  you  even  a  small  relief. 

Sir  Oliv.  If  your  uncle,  Sir  Oliver,  were  here,  I  should  have  a 
friend. 

Jos.  Surf.  I  wish  he  was,  sir,  with  all  my  heart  :  you  should  not 
want  an  advocate  with  him,  believe  me,  sir. 

Sir  Oliv.  I  should  not  need  one  —  my  distresses  would  recom- 
mend me.  But  I  imagined  his  bounty  would  enable  you  to  become 
the  agent  of  his  charity. 

Jos.  Surf.  My  dear  sir,  you  were  strangely  misinformed.  Sir 
Oliver  is  a  worthy  man,  a  very  worthy  man  ;  but  avarice,  Mr. 
Stanley,  is  the  vice  of  age.  I  will  tell  you,  my  good  sir,  in  confi- 
dence, what  he  has  done  for  me  has  been  a  mere  nothing ;  though 
people,  I  know,  have  thought  otherwise,  and,  for  my  part,  I  never 
chose  to  contradict  the  report. 

Sir  Oliv.  What !  has  he  never  transmitted  you  bullion  —  rupees 
—  pagodas  ? 

Jos.  Surf. .  Oh,  clear  sir,  nothing  of  the  kind !  No,  no  ;  a  few 
presents  now  and  then  —  china,  shawls,  congou  tea,  avadavats,  and 
Indian  crackers — little  more,  believe  me. 

Sir  Olh.  Here 's  gratitude  for  twelve  thousand  pounds !  —  Avada- 
vats and  Indian  crackers  !  [Aside. 

Jos.  Suif.  Then,  my  dear  sir,  you  have  heard,  I  doubt  not,  of 
the  extravagance  of  my  brother:  there  are  very  few  would  credit 
what  I  have  done  for  that  unfortunate  young  man. 

Sir  Qliv.    Not  I,  for  one  !  [Aside. 


294  THE  SCHOOL   FOR  SCANDAL. 

Jos.  Surf.  The  sums  I  have  lent  him  !  —  Indeed  I  have  been  ex- 
ceedingly to  blame  ;  it  was  an  amiable  weakness  ;  however,  I  don't 
pretend  to  defend  it ""  and  now  I  feel  it  doubly  culpable,  since  it  has 
deprived  me  of  the  pleasure  of  serving  you,  Mr.  Stanley,  as  my 
heart  dictates. 

Sir  Oliv.  [Aside.]  Dissembler  !  —  [Aloud.}  Then,  sir,  you  can't 
assist  me  ? 

Jos.  Surf.    At  present,  it  grieves  me  to  say,  I  cannot  ;  but,  when- 
ever I  have  the  ability,  you  may  depend  upon  hearing  from  me. 
Sir  Oliv.    I  am  extremely  sorry 

Jos.  Surf.    Not   more   than  I,   believe  me ;    to  pity  without  the 
power  to  relieve,  is  still  more  painful  than  to  ask  and  be  denied. 
Sir  Oliv.   Kind  sir,  your  most  obedient  humble  servant. 

Jos.  Surf.  You  leave  me  deeply  affected,  Mr.  Stanley.  —  Wil- 
liam, be  ready  to  open  the  door.  [Calls  to  SERVANT. 

Sir  Oliv.    Oh,  dear  sir,  no  ceremony. 

Jos.  Surf.    Your  very  obedient. 

Sir  Oliv.    Sir,  your  most  obsequious. 

Jos.  Surf.  You  may  depend  upon  hearing  from  me,  whenever  I 
can  be  of  service. 

Sir  Oliv.    Sweet  sir,  you  are  too  good  ! 

Jos.  Surf.    In  the  mean  time  I  wish  you  health  and  spirits. 

Sir  Oliv.    Your  ever  grateful  and  perpetual  humble  servant. 

Jos.  Surf.    Sir,  yours  as  sincerely. 

Sir  Oliv.    [Aside.]    Charles,  you  are  my  heir  !  [Exit. 

Jos.  Surf.  This  is  one  bad  effect  of  a  good  character ;  it  invites 
application  from  the  unfortunate,  and  there  needs  no  small  degree  of 
address  to  gain  the  reputation  of  benevolence  without  incurring  the 
expense.  The  silver  ore  of  pure  charity  is  an  expensive  article  in 
the  catalogue  of  a  man's  good  qualities ;  whereas  the  sentimental 


A    COMEDY.  295 

French  plate  I  use  instead  of  it  makes  just  as  good  a  show,  and  pays 

no  tax. 

Re-Enter  ROWLEY. 

Row.  Mr.  Surface,  your  servant :  I  was  apprehensive  of  inter- 
rupting you,  though  my  business  demands  immediate  attention,  as 
this  note  will  inform  you. 

Jos.  Surf.  Always  happy  to  see  Mr.  Rowley,  —  a  rascal.  —  [Aside. 
Reads  the  letter.}  Sir  Oliver  Surface  !  —  My  uncle  arrived  ! 

Row.  He  is,  indeed:  we  have  just  parted  —  quite  well,  after  a 
speedy  voyage,  and  impatient  to  embrace  his  worthy  nephew. 

Jos.  SurJ.  I  am  astonished  !  —  William  !  stop  Mr.  Stanley,  if  he 's 
not  gone.  [Calls  to  SERVANT. 

Row.    Oh  !  he 's  out  of  reach,  I  believe. 

Jos.  Surf.  Why  did  you  not  let  me  know  this  when  you  came  in 
together  ? 

Row.  I  thought  you  had  particular  business  But  I  must  be 
gone  to  inform  your  brother,  and  appoint  him  here  to  meet  your 
uncle.  He  will  be  with  you  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Jos.  Surf.  So  he  says.  Well,  I  am  strangely  overjoyed  at  his 
coming. — [Aside.]  Never,  to  be  sure,  was  anything  so  damned 
unlucky ! 

Row.    You  will  be  delighted  to  see  how  well  he  looks. 

Jos.  Surf.  Ah  !  I'm  rejoiced  to  hear  it.  —  [Aside.}  Just  at  this 
time ! 

Row.    I  '11  tell  him  how  impatiently  you  expect  him. 

Jos.  Surf.  Do,  do  ;  pray  give  my  best  duty  and  affection.  Indeed, 
I  cannot  express  the  sensations  I  feel  at  the  thought  of  seeing  him. 
[Exit  ROWLEY.]  Certainly  his  coming  just  at  this  time  is  the 
cruellest  piece  of  ill-fortune.  [Exit. 


296  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

SCENE  II.  —  A  Room  in  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE'S  House. 
Enter  MRS.  CANDOUR  and  MAID. 

Maid.    Indeed,  ma'am,  my  lady  will  see  nobody  at  present. 

Mrs.  Can.    Did  you  tell  her  it  was  her  friend,  Mrs.  Candour  ? 

Maid.    Yes,  ma'am  ;  but  she  begs  you  will  excuse  her. 

Mrs.  Can.  Do  go  again  :  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  her,  if  it  be  only 
for  a  moment,  for  I'm  sure  she  must  be  in  great  distress.  —  [Exit 
MAID.]  Dear  heart,  how  provoking  !  I  'm  not  mistress  of  half  the 
circumstances !  We  shall  have  the  whole  affair  in  the  newspapers, 
with  the  names  of  the  parties  at  length,  before  I  have  dropped  the 
story  at  a  dozen  houses. 

Enter  SIR  BENJAMIN  BACKBITE. 

Oh,  dear  Sir  Benjamin  !  you  have  heard,  I  suppose 

Sir  Bcnj.    Of  Lady  Teazle  and  Mr.  Surface 

Mrs.  Can.    And  Sir  Peter's  discovery 

Sir  Bcnj.    Oh,  the  strangest  piece  of  business,  to  be  sure  ! 

Mrs.  Can.  Well,  I  never  was  so  surprised  in  my  life.  I  am  so 
sorry  for  all  parties,  indeed. 

Sir  Benj.  Now,  I  don't  pity  Sir  Peter  at  all  :  he  was  so  extrava- 
gantly partial  to  Mr.  Surface. 

Mrs.  Can.  Mr.  Surface  !  Why  "t  was  with  Charles  Lady  Teazle 
was  detected. 

Sir  Benj.    No,  no,  I  tell  you  :  Mr.  Surface  is  the  gallant. 

Mrs.  Can.  No  such  thing  !  Charles  is  the  man.  "T  was  Mr.  Sur- 
face brought  Sir  Peter  on  purpose  to  discover  them. 

Sir  Benj.    I  tell  you  I  had  it  from  one 

Mrs.  Can.    And  I  have  it  from  one 

Sir  Benj.    Who  had  it  from  one,  who  had  it 


A    COMEDY.  297 

Mrs.  Can.    From    one   immediately  —      But   here   comes    Lady 
Sneerwell ;  perhaps  she  knows  the  whole  affair. 
Enter  LADY  SNEERWELL. 

Lady  Sneer.    So,  my  dear  Mrs.  Candour,  here  's  a  sad  affair  of  our 
friend  Lady  Teazle ! 

Mrs.  Can.    Ay,  my  dear  friend,  who  would  have  thought 

Lady  Sneer.    Well,  there  is  no  trusting  appearances ;  though,  in- 
deed, she  was  always  too  lively  for  me. 

Mrs.  Can.    To  be  sure,  her  manners  were  a  little  too  free;  but 
then  she  was  so  young  ! 

Lady  Sneer.    And  had,  indeed,  some  good  qualities. 

Mrs.  Can.   So  she  had,  indeed.    But  have  you  heard  the  particulars  ? 

Lady  Sneer.    No  ;  but  every  body  says  that  Mr.  Surface 

Sir  Benj.    Ay,  there  ;  I  told  you  Mr.  Surface  was  the  man. 

Mrs.  Can.    No,  no  :  indeed  the  assignation  was  with  Charles. 

Lady  Sneer.    With  Charles  !     You  alarm  me,  Mrs.  Candour  ! 

Mrs.  Can.    Yes,  yes  ;  he  was  the  lover.     Mr.  Surface,  to  do  him 
justice,  was  only  the  informer. 

Sir  Benj.    Well,  I  '11  not  dispute  with  you,  Mrs.  Candour  ;  but, 
be  it  which  it  may,  I  hope  that  Sir  Peter's  wound  will  not 

Mrs.  Can.    Sir  Peter's  wound  !    Oh,  mercy  !    I  did  n't  hear  a  word 
of  their  fighting. 

Lady  Sneer.    Nor  I,  a  syllable. 

Sir  Benj.    No  !  what,  no  mention  of  the  duel  ? 

Mrs.  Can.    Not  a  word. 

Sir  Benj.    Oh,  yes  :  they  fought  before  they  left  the  room. 

Lady  Sneer.    Pray  let  us  hear. 

Mrs.  Can.    Ay,  do  oblige  us  with  the  duel. 

Sir  Benj.    Sir,  says   Sir  Peter,  immediately  after  the  discovery, 
you  are  a  most  ungrateful  fellow. 


298  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

Mrs.  Can.    Ay,  to  Charles 

Sir  Benj.  No,  no  —  to  Mr.  Surface  —  a  most  ungrateful  fellow ; 
and  old  as  I  am,  sir,  says  he,  /  insist  on  immediate  satisfaction. 

Mrs.  Can.  Ay,  that  must  have  been  to  Charles  ;  for  't  is  very 
unlikely  Mr.  Surface  should  fight  in  his  own  house. 

Sir  Benj.  Gad's  life,  ma'am,  not  at  all  — giving  me  immediate 
satisfaction. —  On  this,  ma'am,  Lady  Teazle,  seeing  Sir  Peter  in  such 
danger,  ran  out  of  the  room  in  strong  hysterics,  and  Charles  after 
her,  calling  out  for  hartshorn  and  water  ;  then,  madam,  they  began 

to  fight  with  swords 

Enter  CRABTREE. 

Crab.  With  pistols,  nephew  —  pistols  !  I  have  it  from  undoubted 
authority. 

Mrs.  Can.    Oh,  Mr.  Crabtree,  then  it  is  all  true  ! 

Crab.  Too  true,  indeed,  madam,  and  Sir  Peter  is  dangerously 
wounded 

Sir  Benj.    By  a  thrust  in  second  quite  through  his  left  side 

Crab.    By  a  bullet  lodged  in  the  thorax. 

Mrs.  Can.    Mercy  on  me  !     Poor  Sir  Peter  ! 

Crab.  Yes,  madam  ;  though  Charles  would  have  avoided  the  mat- 
ter, if  he  could. 

Mrs.  Can.    I  told  you  who  it  was  ;  I  knew  Charles  was  the  person. 

Sir  Benj.    My  uncle,  I  see,  knows  nothing  of  the  matter. 

Crab.   But  Sir  Peter  taxed  him  with  the  basest  ingratitude 

Sir  Benj.    That  I  told  you,  you  know 

Crab.  Do,  nephew,  let  me  speak !  —  and  insisted  on  imme- 
diate   

Sir  Benj.    Just  as  I  said 

Crab.  Odds  life,  nephew,  allow  others  to  know  something  too  !  A 
pair  of  pistols  lay  on  the  bureau  (for  Mr.  Surface,  it  seems  had  come 


A    COMEDY.  299 

home  the  night  before  late  from  Salthill,  where  he  had  been  to  see 
the  Montem  with  a  friend,  who  has  a  son  at  Eton),  so,  unluckily,  the 
pistols  were  left  charged. 

Sir  Benj.    I  heard  nothing  of  this. 

Crab.  Sir  Peter  forced  Charles  to  take  one,  and  they  fired,  it 
seems,  pretty  nearly  together.  Charles's  shot  took  effect,  as  I  tell 
you,  and  Sir  Peter's  missed  ;  but,  what  is  very  extraordinary,  the 
ball  struck  against  a  little  bronze  Shakespeare  that  stood  over  the 
fireplace,  grazed  out  of  the  window  at  a  right  angle,  and  wounded 
the  postman,  who  was  just  coming  to  the  door  with  a  double 
letter  from  Northamptonshire. 

Sir  Benj.  My  uncle's  account  is  more  circumstantial,  I  confess ; 
but  I  believe  mine  is  the  true  one,  for  all  that. 

Lady  Sneer.  [Aside.}  I  am  more  interested  in  this  affair  than 
they  imagine,  and  must  have  better  information. 

{Exit  LADY  SNEERWELL. 

Sir  Benj.  Ah !  Lady  Sneerwell's  alarm  is  very  easily  accounted 
for. 

Crab.  Yes,  yes,  they  certainly  do  say  —  but  that's  neither  here 
nor  there. 

Mrs.  Can.    But,  pray,  where  is  Sir  Peter  at  present  ? 

Crab.  Oh,  they  brought  him  home,  and  he  is  now  in  the  house, 
though  the  servants  are  ordered  to  deny  him. 

Mrs.  Can.  I  believe  so,  and  Lady  Teazle,  I  suppose,  attending 
him. 

Crab.  Yes,  yes  ;  and  I  saw  one  of  the  faculty  enter  just  before  me. 

Sir  Benj.    Hey  !   who  comes  here  ? 

Crab.    Oh,  this  is  he  :  the  physician,  depend  on  't. 

Mrs.  Can.  Oh,  certainly !  it  must  be  the  physician ;  and  now 
we  shall  know. 


300  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

Enter  SIR  OLIVER  SURFACE. 

Crab.    Well,  doctor,  what  hopes  ? 

Mrs.  Can.    Ay,  doctor,  how  's  your  patient  ? 

Sir  Benj.    Now,  doctor,  is  n't  it  a  wound  with  a  small-sword  ? 

Crab.    A  bullet  lodged  in  the  thorax,  for  a  hundred ! 

Sir  Oliv.  Doctor !  a  wound  with  a  small-sword  !  and  a  bullet  in 
the  thorax !  —  Oons  !  are  you  mad,  good  people  ? 

Sir  Benj.    Perhaps,  sir,  you  are  not  a  doctor  ? 

Sir  Oliv.  Truly,  I  am  to  thank  you  for  my  degree,  if 
I  am. 

Crab.  Only  a  friend  of  Sir  Peter's,  then,  I  presume.  But,  sir, 
you  must  have  heard  of  his  accident  ? 

Sir  Oliv.    Not  a  word ! 

Crab.    Not  of  his  being  dangerously  wounded  ? 

Sir  Oliv.   The  devil  he  is ! 

Sir  Benj.    Run  through  the  body 

Crab.    Shot  in  the  breast 

Sir  Benj.    By  one  Mr.  Surface 

Crab.    Ay,  the  younger. 

Sir  Oliv.  Hey  !  what  the  plague  !  you  seem  to  differ  strangely 
in  your  accounts  :  however,  you  agree  that  Sir  Peter  is  dangerously 
wounded. 

Sir  Benj.    Oh,  yes,  we  agree  in  that. 

Crab.   Yes,  yes,  I  believe  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  that. 

Sir  Oliv.  Then,  upon  my  word,  for  a  person  in  that  situation, 
he  is  the  most  imprudent  man  alive ;  for  here  he  comes,  walking 
as  if  nothing  at  all  was  the  matter. 

Enter  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE. 

Odds  heart,    Sir    Peter !    you   are    come  in  good   time,   I  promise 
you  ;  for  we  had  just  given  you  over ! 


A    COMEDY.  301 

Sir  Benj.  [Aside  to  CRABTREE.]  Egad,  uncle,  this  is  the  most 
sudden  recovery ! 

Sir  Oliv.  Why,  man !  what  do  you  out  of  bed  with  a  small- 
sword through  your  body,  and  a  bullet  lodged  in  your  thorax  ? 

Sir  Peter.    A  small-sword  and  a  bullet  ! 

Sir  Oliv.  Ay ;  these  gentlemen  would  have  killed  you  without 
law  or  physic,  and  wanted  to  dub  me  a  doctor,  to  make  me  an 
accomplice. 

Sir  Peter.    Why,  what  is  all  this  ? 

Sir  Benj.  We  rejoice,  Sir  Peter,  that  the  story  of  the  duel  is 
not  true,  and  are  sincerely  sorry  for  your  other  misfortune. 

Sir  Peter.    So,  so ;  all  over  the  town  already  !  [Aside. 

Crab.  Though,  Sir  Peter,  you  were  certainly  vastly  to  blame  to 
marry  at  your  years. 

Sir  Peter.    Sir,  what  business  is  that  of  yours  ? 

Mrs.  Can.  Though,  indeed,  as  Sir  Peter  made  so  good  a  husband, 
he  's  very  much  to  be  pitied. 

Sir  Peter.    Plague  on  your  pity,  ma'am  !   I  desire  none  of  it. 

Sir  Benj.  However,  Sir  Peter,  you  must  not  mind  the  laughing 
and  jests  you  will  meet  with  on  the  occasion. 

Sir  Peter.    Sir,  sir !   I  desire  to  be  master  in  my  own  house. 

Crab.    'Tis  no  uncommon  case,  that's  one  comfort. 

Sir  Peter.  I  insist  on  being  left  to  myself  :  without  ceremony,  — 
I  insist  on  your  leaving  my  house  directly ! 

Mrs.  Can.  Well,  well,  we  are  going ;  and  depend  on  't,  we  '11  make 
the  best  report  of  it  we  can.  [Exit. 

Sir  Peter.    Leave  my  house  ! 

Crab.    And  tell  how  hardly  you  've  been  treated.  [Exit. 

Sir  Peter.    Leave  my  house. 

Sir  Benj.  And  how  patiently  you  bear  it.  [Exit. 


302  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

Sir  Peter.  Fiends  !  vipers  !  furies  !  Oh  !  that  their  own  venom 
would  choke  them  ! 

Sir  Oliv.    They  are  very  provoking,  indeed,  Sir  Peter. 
Enter  ROWLEY. 

Row.    I  heard  high  words  :  what  has  rufficd  you,  sir  ? 

Sir  Peter.  Pshaw  !  what  signifies  asking  ?  Do  I  ever  pass  a  day 
without  my  vexations  ? 

Row.    Well,  I  'm  not  inquisitive. 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  Sir  Peter,  I  have  seen  both  my  nephews  in  the 
manner  we  proposed. 

Sir  Peter.    A  precious  couple  they  are  ! 

Row.  Yes,  and  Sir  Oliver  is  convinced  that  your  judgment  was 
right,  Sir  Peter. 

Sir  Oliv.    Yes,  I  find  Joseph  is  indeed  the  man,  after  all. 

Row.    Ay,  as  Sir  Peter  says,  he  is  a  man  of  sentiment. 

Sir  Oliv.    And  acts  up  to  the  sentiments  he  professes. 

Row.    It  certainly  is  edification  to  hear  him  talk. 

Sir  Oliv.  Oh,  he  's  a  model  for  the  young  men  of  the  age.  —  But 
how  's  this,  Sir  Peter  ?  you  don't  join  us  in  your  friend  Joseph's 
praise,  as  I  expected. 

Sir  Peter.  Sir  Oliver,  we  live  in  a  damned  wicked  world,  and  the 
fewer  we  praise  the  better. 

Row.  What !  do  you  say  so,  Sir  Peter,  who  were  never  mistaken 
in  your  life  ? 

Sir  Peter.  Pshaw  !  plague  on  you  both  !  I  see  by  your  sneering 
you  have  heard  the  whole  affair.  I  shall  go  mad  among  you ! 

Row.  Then,  to  fret  you  no  longer,  Sir  Peter,  we  are  indeed  ac- 
quainted with  it  all.  I  met  Lady  Teazle  coming  from  Mr.  Surface's 
so  humble,  that  she  deigned  to  request  me  to  be  her  advocate  with 
you. 


A    COMEDY.  303 

Sir  Peter.    And  does  Sir  Oliver  know  all  this  ? 

Sir  Oliv.    Every  circumstance. 

Sir  Peter.    What  of  the  closet  and  the  screen,  hey  ? 

Sir  Oliv.  Yes,  yes,  and  the  little  French  milliner.  Oh,  I  have 
been  vastly  diverted  with  the  story  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Sir  Peter.  'T  was  very  pleasant. 

Sir  Oliv.  I  never  laughed  more  in  my  life,  I  assure  you  ;  ah  !  ah  ! 
ah! 

Sir  Peter.    Oh,  vastly  diverting  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Row.    To  be  sure,  Joseph  with  his  sentiments  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Sir  Peter.  Yes,  yes,  his  sentiments  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Hypocritical 
villain  ! 

Sir  Oliv.  Ay,  and  that  rogue  Charles  to  pull  Sir  Peter  out  of  the 
closet !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Sir  Peter.    Ha  !  ha  !  't  was  devilish  entertaining,  to  be  sure  ! 

Sir  Oliv.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Egad,  Sir  Peter,  I  should  like  to  have 
seen  your  face  when  the  screen  was  thrown  down  !  ha !  ha ! 

Sir  Peter.  Yes,  yes,  my  face  when  the  screen  was  thrown  down  : 
ha  !  ha  !  ha!  Oh,  I  must  never  show  my  head  again  ! 

Sir  Oliv.  But  come,  come,  it  isn't  fair  to  laugh  at  you  neither, 
my  old  friend  ;  though,  upon  my  soul,  I  can't  help  it. 

Sir  Peter.  Oh,  pray  don't  restrain  your  mirth  on  my  account :  it 
does  not  hurt  me  at  all !  I  laugh  at  the  whole  affair  myself.  Yes. 
yes,  I  think  being  a  standing  jest  for  all  one's  acquaintance  a  very 
happy  situation.  Oh,  yes,  and  then  of  a  morning  to  read  the  para- 
graphs about  Mr.  S ,  Lady  T ,  and  Sir  P ,  will  be  so 

entertaining ! 

Row.  Without  affectation,  Sir  Peter,  you  may  despise  the  ridicule 
of  fools.  But  I  see  Lady  Teazle  going  towards  the  next  room  ;  I  am 
sure  you  must  desire  a  reconciliation  as  earnestly  as  she  does. 


304  THE  SCHOOL   FOR  SCANDAL. 

Sir  Oliv.  Perhaps  my  being  here  prevents  her  coming  to  you. 
Well,  I  '11  leave  honest  Rowley  to  mediate  between  you ;  but  he  must 
bring  you  all  presently  to  Mr.  Surface's,  where  I  am  now  returning, 
if  not  to  reclaim  a  libertine,  at  least  to  expose  hypocrisy. 

Sir  Peter.  Ah,  I  '11  be  present  at  your  discovering  yourself  there 
with  all  my  heart  ;  though  't  is  a  vile  unlucky  place  for  discoveries. 

Row.    We  '11  follow.  (Exit  SIR  OLIVER  SURFACE. 

Sir  Peter.    She  is  not  coming  here,  you  see,  Rowley. 

Row.  No,  but  she  has  left  the  door  of  that  room  open,  you  per- 
ceive. See,  she  is  in  tears. 

Sir  Peter.  Certainly,  a  little  mortification  appears  very  becoming 
in  a  wife.  Don't  you  think  it  will  do  her  good  to  let  her  pine  a 
little  ? 

Row.    Oh,  this  is  ungenerous  in  you  ! 

Sir  Peter.  Well,  I  know  not  what  to  think.  You  remember  the 
letter  I  found  of  hers  evidently  intended  for  Charles  ? 

Roiu.  A  mere  forgery,  Sir  Peter !  laid  in  your  way  on  purpose. 
This  is  one  of  the  points  which  I  intend  Snake  shall  give  you  con- 
viction of. 

Sir  Peter.  I  wish  I  were  once  satisfied  of  that.  She  looks  this 
way.  What  a  remarkably  elegant  turn  of  the  head  she  has.  Rowley, 
I  '11  go  to  her. 

Row.    Certainly. 

Sir  Peter.  Though,  when  it  is  known  that  we  are  reconciled, 
people  will  laugh  at  me  ten  times  more. 

Row.  Let  them  laugh,  and  retort  their  malice  only  by  showing 
them  you  are  happy  in  spite  of  it. 

Sir  Peter.  I' faith,  so  I  will!  and,  if  I'm  not  mistaken,  we  may 
yet  be  the  happiest  couple  in  the  country. 

Row.    Nay,  Sir  Peter,  he  who  once  lays  aside  suspicion 


A    COMEDY.  305 

Sir  Peter.  Hold,  Master  Rowley !  if  you  have  any  regard  for  me, 
never  let  me  hear  you  utter  anything  like  a  sentiment :  I  have  had 
enough  of  them  to  serve  me  the  rest  of  my  life.  \Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. —  The  Library  in  JOSEPH  SURFACE'S  House. 
Enter  JOSEPH  SURFACE  and  LADY  SNEERWELL. 

Lady  Sneer.  Impossible !  Will  not  Sir  Peter  immediately  be 
reconciled  to  Charles,  and  of  course  no  longer  oppose  his  union  with 
Maria  ?  The  thought  is  distraction  to  me. 

Jos.  Surf.    Can  passion  furnish  a  remedy  ? 

Lady  Sneer.  No,  nor  cunning  either.  Oh,  I  was  a  fool,  an  idiot, 
to  league  with  such  a  blunderer ! 

Jos.  Surf.  Sure,  Lady  Sneerwell,  I  am  the  greatest  sufferer ;  yet 
you  see  I  bear  the  accident  with  calmness. 

Lady  Sneer.  Because  the  disappointment  does  n't  reach  your 
heart ;  your  interest  only  attached  you  to  Maria.  Had  you  felt  for 
her  what  I  have  for  that  ungrateful  libertine,  neither  your  temper 
nor  hypocrisy  could  prevent  your  showing  the  sharpness  of  your 
vexation. 

Jos.  Surf.  But  why  should  your  reproaches  fall  on  me  for  this 
disappointment  ? 

Lady  Sneer.  Are  you  not  the  cause  of  it  ?  Had  you  not  a 
sufficient  field  for  your  roguery  in  imposing  upon  Sir  Peter,  and 
supplanting  your  brother,  but  you  must  endeavor  to  seduce  his  wife  ? 
I  hate  such  an  avarice  of  crimes ;  't  is  an  unfair  monopoly,  and 
never  prospers. 

Jos.  Surf.    Well,  I  admit  I  have  been  to  blame.     I  confess  I  de- 


306  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

viated  from  the   direct  road  of  wrong,  but  I  don't   think  we  're  so 
totally  defeated  neither. 

Lady  Sneer.    No ! 

Jos.  Surf.  You  tell  me  you  have  made  a  trial  of  Snake  since  we 
met,  and  that  you  still  believe  him  faithful  to  us  ? 

Lady  Sneer.    I  do  believe  so. 

Jos.  Surf.  And  that  he  has  undertaken,  should  it  be  necessary, 
to  swear  and  prove  that  Charles  is  at  this  time  contracted  by  vows 
and  honor  to  your  ladyship,  which  some  of  his  former  letters  to  you 
will  serve  to  support  ? 

Lady  Sneer.    This,  indeed,  might  have  assisted. 

Jos.  Surf.  Come,  come ;  it  is  not  too  late  yet.  —  {Knocking  at  the 
door.]  But  hark  !  this  is  probably  my  uncle,  Sir  Oliver :  retire  to  that 
room ;  we  '11  consult  farther  when  he  is  gone. 

Lady  Sneer.    Well,  but  if  he  should  find  you  out  too  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  Oh,  I  have  no  fear  of  that.  Sir  Peter  will  hold  his 
tongue  for  his  own  credit's  sake  —  and  you  may  depend  on  it  I  shall 
soon  discover  Sir  Oliver's  weak  side ! 

Lady  Sneer.  I  have  no  diffidence  of  your  abilities  :  only  be  con- 
stant to  one  roguery  at  a  time. 

Jos.  Surf.  I  will,  I  will!  —  [Exit  LADY  SXEERWELL.]  So!  'tis 
confounded  hard,  after  such  bad  fortune,  to  be  baited  by  one's  con- 
federate in  evil.  Well,  at  all  events,  my  character  is  so  much  better 
than  Charles's,  that  I  certainly — hey! — what  —  this  is  not  Sir 
Oliver,  but  old  Stanley  again.  Plague  on 't  that  he  should  return 
to  tease  me  just  now  !  I  shall  have  Sir  Oliver  come  and  find  him 

here  —  and 

Enter  SIR  OLIVER  SURFACE. 

Gad's  life,  Mr.  Stanley,  why  have  you  come  back  to  plague  me  at 
this  time  ?  You  must  not  stay  now,  upon  my  word. 


A    COMEDY.  307 

Sir  Oliv.  Sir,  I  hear  your  uncle  Oliver  is  expected  here,  and 
though  he  has  been  so  penurious  to  you,  I  '11  try  what  he'll  do  for  me. 

Jos.  Surf.    Sir,  't  is  impossible  for   you  to  stay  now,  so  I  must 

beg come   any  other  time,   and    I    promise   you   you   shall   be 

assisted. 

Sir  Oliv.    No  :  Sir  Oliver  and  I  must  be  acquainted. 

Jos.  Surf.  Zounds,  sir !  then  I  insist  on  your  quitting  the  room 
directly. 

Sir  Oliv.    Nay,  sir 

Jos.  Surf.  Sir,  I  insist  on  't !  —  Here,  William  !  show  this  gentle- 
man out.  Since  you  compel  me,  sir,  not  one  moment  —  this  is  such 
insolence.  [Going  to  push  Jiiin  out. 

Enter  CHARLES  SURFACE. 

Chas.  Surf.    Heyday  !  what 's  the  matter  now  ?     What  the  devil, 
have  you  got  hold  of  my  little  broker  here  ?     Zounds,  brother,  don't 
hurt  little  Premium.     What's  the  matter,  my  little  fellow? 
Jos.  Surf.   So !  he  has  been  with  you  too,  has  he  ? 

Chas.  Surf.    To  be  sure,  he  has.     Why,  he  's  as  honest  a  little 

But  sure,  Joseph,  you  have  not   been  borrowing  money  too,  have 
you  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  Borrowing!  no!  But,  brother,  you  know  we  expect 
Sir  Oliver  here  every 

Chas.  Surf.  O  Gad,  that 's  true !  Noll  must  n't  find  the  little 
broker  here,  to  be  sure. 

Jos.  Surf.    Yet  Mr.  Stanley  insists 

Chas.  Surf.    Stanley  !  why  his  name  's  Premium. 

Jos.  Surf.    No,  sir,  Stanley. 

Chas.  Surf.    No,  no,  Premium. 

Jos.  Surf.    Well,  no  matter  which — but 

Chas.  Surf.    Ay,  ay,  Stanley  or  Premium,  't  is  the  same  thing,  as 


308  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

you  say ;  for  I  suppose  he  goes  by  half  a  hundred  names,  besides 
A.  B.  at  the  coffee-house.  {Knocking. 

Jos.  Surf.  'Sdeath!  here's  Sir  Oliver  at  the  door.  —  Now  I  beg, 
Mr.  Stanley 

Clias.  Surf.   Ay,  ay,  and  I  beg  Mr.  Premium 

Sir  Oliv.   Gentlemen 

Jos.  Surf.    Sir,  by  Heaven  you  shall  go  ! 

CJias.  Surf.    Ay,  out  with  him,  certainly  ! 

Sir  Oliv.    This  violence 

Jos.  Surf.    Sir,  't  is  your  own  fault. 

C/ias.  Surf.    Out  with  him,  to  be  sure. 

\Botkforcing  Sir  Oliver  out. 
Enter  SIR  PETER  and  LADY  TEAZLE,  MARIA  and  ROWLEY. 

Sir  Peter.  My  old  friend,  Sir  Oliver  —  hey!  What  in  the  name 
of  wonder  —  here  are  dutiful  nephews  —  assault  their  uncle  at  a  first 
visit ! 

Lady  Teas.  Indeed,  Sir  Oliver,  't  was  well  we  came  in  to  rescue 
you. 

Row.  Truly  it  was;  for  I  perceive,  Sir  Oliver,  the  character  of 
old  Stanley  was  no  protection  to  you. 

Sir  Oliv.  Nor  of  Premium  either :   the  necessities  of  the  former 
could  not  extort  a  shilling  from  that  benevolent  gentleman ;  and  with 
the  other  I  stood  a  chance  of  faring  worse  than  my  ancestors,  and 
being  knocked  down  without  being  bid  for. 
Jos.  Surf.    Charles ! 

Chas.  Surf.    Joseph  ! 
Jos.  Surf.    'T  is  now  complete  ! 

Chas.  Surf.    Very. 

Sir  Oliv.  Sir  Peter,  my  friend,  and  Rowley  too  —  look  on  that 
elder  nephew  of  mine.  You  know  what  he  has  already  received 


A    COMEDY.  309 

from  my  bounty ;  and  you  also  know  how  gladly  I  would  have 
regarded  half  my  fortune  as  held  in  trust  for  him:  judge  then 
my  disappointment  in  discovering  him  to  be  destitute  of  truth, 
charity,  and  gratitude ! 

Sir  Peter.  Sir  Oliver,  I  should  be  more  surprised  at  this  declara- 
tion, if  I  had  not  myself  found  him  to  be  mean,  treacherous,  and 
hypocritical. 

Lady  Teas.  And  if  the  gentleman  pleads  not  guilty  to  these, 
pray  let  him  call  me  to  his  character. 

Sir  Peter.  Then,  I  believe,  we  need  add  no  more  :  if  he  knows 
himself,  he  will  consider  it  as  the  most  perfect  punishment  that 
he  is  known  to  the  world. 

CJias  Surf.    If  they  talk  this  way  to  Honesty,  what  will  they  say 

to  me,  by  and  by  ?  \_Aside. 

[SiR  PETER,  LADY  TEAZLE  and  MARIA  retire. 

Sir  Oliv.    As  for  that  prodigal,  his  brother  there 

Chas.  Surf.  Ay,  now  comes  my  turn  :  the  damned  family  pictures 
will  ruin  me  !  [Aside. 

Jos.  Surf.  Sir  Oliver  —  uncle,  will  you  honor  me  with  a 
hearing  ? 

Chas.  Surf.  Now,  if  Joseph  would  make  one  of  his  long  speeches, 
I  might  recollect  myself  a  little.  {Aside. 

Sir  Oliv.  I  suppose  you  would  undertake  to  justify  yourself  en- 
tirely? [To  JOSEPH  SURFACE. 

Jos.  Surf.    I  trust  I  could. 

Sir  Oliv.  [To  CHARLES  SURFACE.]  Well,  sir! — and  you  could 
justify  yourself  too,  I  suppose  ? 

Chas.  Surf.    Not  that  I  know  of,  Sir  Oliver. 

Sir  Oliv.  What !  —  Little  Premium  has  been  let  too  much  into 
the  secret,  I -suppose? 


310  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

Chas.  Surf.  True,  sir ;  but  they  were  family  secrets,  and  should 
not  be  mentioned  again,  you  know. 

Row.  Come,  Sir  Oliver,  I  know  you  cannqt  speak  of  Charles's 
follies  with  anger. 

Sir  Oliv.  Odd's  heart,  no  more  I  can  ;  nor  with  gravity  either. 
—  Sir  Peter,  do  you  know  the  rogue  bargained  with  me  for  all  his 
ancestors ;  sold  me  judges  and  generals  by  the  foot,  and  maiden 
aunts  as  cheap  as  broken  china. 

Chas.  Surf.  To  be  sure,  Sir  Oliver,  I  did  make  a  little  free  with 
the  family  canvas,  that 's  the  truth  on  't.  My  ancestors  may  rise 
in  judgment  against  me,  there  's  no  denying  it ;  but  believe  me 
sincere  when  I  tell  you  —  and  upon  my  soul  I  would  not  say  so 
if  I  was  not  —  that  if  I  do  not  appear  mortified  at  the  exposure 
of  my  follies,  it  is  because  I  feel  at  this  moment  the  warmest  sat- 
isfaction in  seeing  you,  my  liberal  benefactor. 

Sir  Oliv.  Charles,  I  believe  you.  Give  me  your  hand  again : 
the  ill-looking  little  fellow  over  the  settee  has  made  your  peace. 

Chas.  Surf.  Then,  sir,  my  gratitude  to  the  original  is  still  in- 
creased. 

Lady  Teaz.  [Advancing.]  Yet,  I  believe,  Sir  Oliver,  here  is  one 
whom  Charles  is  still  more  anxious  to  be  reconciled  to. 

[Pointing  to  MARIA. 

Sir  Oliv.  Oh,  I  have  heard  of  his  attachment  there ;  and,  with 
the  young  lady's  pardon,  if  I  construe  right  —  that  blush 

Sir  Peter.    Well,  child,  speak  your  sentiments  ! 

Mar.  Sir,  I  have  little  to  say,  but  that  I  shall  rejoice  to  hear 
that  he  is  happy ;  for  me,  —  whatever  claim  I  had  to  his  affection, 
I  willingly  resign  to  one  who  has  a  better  title. 

Chas.  Surf.    How,  Maria  ! 

Sir  Peter.    Heyday!    what's    the  mystery  now?  —  While  he  ap- 


A    COMEDY.  311 

peared  an  incorrigible  rake,  you  would  give  your  hand  to  no  one 
else ;  and  now  that  he  is  likely  to  reform  I  '11  warrant  you  won't 
have  him  ! 

Mar.    His  own  heart  and  Lady  Sneervvell  know  the  cause. 

Chas.  Surf.    Lady  Sneerwell ! 

Jos.  Surf.  Brother,  it  is  with  great  concern  I  am  obliged  to 
speak  on  this  point,  but  my  regard  to  justice  compels  me,  and 
Lady  Sneerwell's  injuries  can  no  longer  be  concealed. 

\Opens  the  door. 
Enter  LADY  SNEERWELL. 

Sir  Peter.  So  !  another  French  milliner !  Egad,  he  has  one  in 
every  room  in  the  house,  I  suppose  ! 

Lady  Sneer.  Ungrateful  Charles  !  Well  may  you  be  surprised, 
and  feel  for  the  indelicate  situation  your  perfidy  has  forced  me 
into. 

Chas.  Surf.  Pray,  uncle,  is  this  another  plot  of  yours  ?  For,  as 
I  have  life,  I  don't  understand  it. 

Jos.  Surf.  I  believe,  sir,  there  is  but  the  evidence  of  one  person 
more  necessary  to  make  it  extremely  clear. 

Sir  Peter.  And  that  person,  I  imagine,  is  Mr.  Snake.  —  Rowley, 
you  were  perfectly  right  to  bring  him  with  us,  and  pray  let  him 
appear. 

Row.    Walk  in,  Mr.  Snake. 

Enter  SNAKE. 

I  thought  his  testimony  might  be  wanted  :  however,  it  happens 
unluckily,  that  he  comes  to  confront  Lady  Sneerwell,  not  to 
support  her. 

Lady  Sneer.  A  villain !  Treacherous  to  me  at  last !  Speak, 
fellow,  have  you,  too,  conspired  against  me  ? 

Snake.    I    beg  your   ladyship   ten    thousand   pardons  :  you  paid 


312  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

me  extremely  liberally  for  the  lie  in  question ;  but  I  unfortunately 
have  been  offered  double  to  speak  the  truth. 

Sir  Peter.  Plot  and  counter-plot,  egad !  I  wish  your  ladyship 
joy  of  your  negotiation. 

Lady  Sneer.  The  torments  of  shame  and  disappointment  on 
you  all !  [Going. 

Lady  Teas.  Hold,  Lady  Sneerwell  —  before  you  go,  let  me  thank 
you  for  the  trouble  you  and  that  gentleman  have  taken,  in  writing 
letters  from  me  to  Charles,  and  answering  them  yourself ;  and  let 
me  also  request  you  to  make  my  respects  to  the  scandalous  college 
of  which  you  are  president,  and  inform  them  that  Lady  Teazle, 
licentiate,  begs  leave  to  return  the  diploma  they  granted  her,  as 
she  leaves  off  practice,  and  kills  characters  no  longer. 

Lady  Sneer.  You  too,  madam  !  —  provoking  —  insolent !  May 
your  husband  live  these  fifty  years !  [Exit. 

Sir  Peter.    Oons  !  what  a  fury  ! 

Lady  Teas.    A  malicious  creature,  indeed  ! 

Sir  Peter.    Hey  !  not  for  her  last  wish  ? 

Lady  Teas.    Oh,  no  ! 

Sir  Oliv.    Well,  sir,  and  what  have  you  to  say  now  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  Sir,  I  am  so  confounded,  to  find  that  Lady  Sneerwell 
could  be  guilty  of  suborning  Mr.  Snake  in  this  manner,  to  impose 
on  us  all,  that  I  know  not  what  to  say :  however,  lest  her  revengeful 
spirit  should  prompt  her  to  injure  my  brother,  I  had  certainly  better 
follow  her  directly.  For  the  man  who  attempts  to [Exit. 

Sir  Peter.    Moral  to  the  last  drop  ! 

Sir  Oliv.  Ay,  and  marry  her,  Joseph,  if  you  can.  Oil  and  Vinegar ! 
—  egad,  you  '11  do  very  well  together. 

Row.  I  believe  we  have  no  more  occasion  for  Mr.  Snake  at 
present  ? 


A    COMEDY.  313 

Snake.  Before  I  go,  I  beg  pardon  once  for  all,  for  whatever 
uneasiness  I  have  been  the  humble  instrument  of  causing  to  the 
parties  present. 

Sir  Peter.  Well,  well,  you  have  made  atonement  by  a  good  deed 
at  last. 

Snake.  But  I  must  request  of  the  company,  that  it  shall  never  be 
known. 

Sir  Peter.  Hey!  —  what  the  plague!  —  are  you  ashamed  of  hav- 
ing done  a  right  thing  once  in  your  life  ? 

Snake.  Ah,  sir,  consider  —  I  live  by  the  badness  of  my  character ; 
I  have  nothing  but  my  infamy  to  depend  on !  and,  if  it  were  once 
known  that  I  had  been  betrayed  into  an  honest  action,  I  should  lose 
every  friend  I  have  in  the  world. 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  well  —  we  '11  not  traduce  you  by  saying  anything 
in  your  praise,  never  fear.  {Exit  SNAKE. 

Sir  Peter.    There  's  a  precious  rogue  ! 

Lady  Teas.  See,  Sir  Oliver,  there  needs  no  persuasion  now  to 
reconcile  your  nephew  and  Maria. 

Sir  Oliv.  Ay,  ay,  that 's  as  it  should  be,  and,  egad,  we'  11  have 
the  wedding  to-morrow  morning. 

Chas.  Surf.    Thank  you,  dear  uncle. 

Sir  Peter.  What,  you  rogue  !  don't  you  ask  the  girl's  consent  first  ? 

Chas.  Surf.  Oh,  I  have  done  that  a  long  time — a  minute  ago  — 
and  she  has  looked  yes. 

Mar.    For  shame,  Charles  !  —  I  protest,  Sir  Peter,  there  has  not 

been  a  word 

.Sir  Oliv.  Well,  then,  the  fewer  the  better;  may  your  love  for 
each  other  never  know  abatement. 

Sir  Peter.  And  may  you  live  as  happily  together  as  Lady  Teazle 
and  I  intend  to  do ! 


314  THE  SCHOOL   FOR  SCANDAL. 

CJias.  Surf.  Rowley,  my  old  friend,  I  am  sure  you  congratulate 
me;  and  I  suspect  that  I  owe  you  much. 

Sir  Oliv.    You  do,  indeed,  Charles. 

Row.  If  my  efforts  to  serve  you  had  not  succeeded,  you  would 
have  been  in  my  debt  for  the  attempt ;  but  deserve  to  be  happy 
and  you  overpay  me. 

Sir  Peter.    Ay,  honest  Rowley  always  said  you  would  reform. 

C/ias.  Surf.  Why,  as  to  reforming,  Sir  Peter,  I  '11  make  no  pro- 
mises, and  that  I  take  to  be  a  proof  that  I  intend  to  set  about 
it.  But  here  shall  be  my  monitor  —  my  gentle  guide.  —  Ah  !  can 
I  leave  the  virtuous  path  those  eyes  illumine  ? 

Though  thou,  dear  maid,  shouldst  waive  thy  beauty's  sway, 

Thou  still  must  rule,  because  I  will  obey  : 

An  humble  fugitive  from  Folly  view, 

No  sanctuary  near  but  Love  and  you  :  [  To  the  audience. 

You  can,  indeed,  each  anxious  fear  remove, 
Foreven  Scandal  dies,  if  you  approve. 


EPILOGUE. 

BY  MR.  COLMAN. 
SPOKEN     BY     LADY     TEAZLE. 


I,  WHO  was  late  so  volatile  and  gay, 
Like  a  trade-wind  must  now  blow  all  one  way, 
Bend  all  my  cares,  my  studies,  and  my  vows, 
To  one  dull  rusty  weathercock  —  my  spouse ! 
So  wills  our  virtuous  bard  —  the  motley  Bayes 
Of  crying  epilogues  and  laughing  plays ! 
Old  bachelors,  who  marry  smart  young  wives, 
Learn  from  our  play  to  regulate  your  lives  ; 
Each  bring  his  dear  to  town,  all  faults  upon  her  — 
London  will  prove  the  very  source  of  honor, 
Plunged  fairly  in,  like  a  cold  bath  it  serves, 
When  principles  relax,  to  brace  the  nerves : 
Such  is  my  case  ;  and  yet  I  must  deplore 
That  the  gay  dream  of  dissipation  's  o'er. 
And  say,  ye  fair !  was  ever  lively  wife, 
Born  with  a  genius  for  the  highest  life, 
Like  me  untimely  blasted  in  her  bloom, 
Like  me  condemn'd  to  such  a  dismal  doom  ? 
Save  money  —  when  I  just  knew  how  to  waste  it ! 
Leave  London  —  just  as  I  began  to  taste  it ! 
Must  I  then  watch  the  early  crowing  cock, 
The  melancholy  ticking  of  a  clock ; 


316  EPILOGUE. 

In  a  lone  rustic  hall  for  ever  pounded, 

With  dogs,  cats,  rats,  and  squalling  brats  surrounded  ? 

With  humble  curate  can  I  now  retire, 

(While  good  Sir  Peter  boozes  with  the  squire,) 

And  at  backgammon  mortify  my  soul, 

That  pants  for  loo,  or  flutters  at  a  vole  ? 

Seven  's  the  main  !     Dear  sound  that  must  expire, 

Lost  at  hot  cockles  round  a  Christmas  fire ; 

The  transient  hour  of  fashion  too  soon  spent, 

Farewell  the  tranquil  mind,  farewell  content ! 

Farewell  the  plumed  head,  the  cushion'd  tete, 

That  takes  the  cushion  from  its  proper  seat ! 

That  spirit-stirring  drum  !  —  card  drums  I  mean, 

Spadille  —  odd  trick  —  pam  —  basto  —  king  and  queen  ! 

And  you,  ye  knockers,  that,  with  brazen  throat, 

The  welcome  visitors'  approach  denote  ; 

Farewell  all  quality  of  high  renown, 

Pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glorious  town ! 

Farewell !  your  revels  I  partake  no  more, 

And  Lady  Teazle 's  occupation  's  o'er  ! 

All  this  I  told  our  bard  ;  he  smiled,  and  said  't  was  clear, 

I  ought  to  play  deep  tragedy  next  year. 

Meanwhile  he  drew  wise  morals  from  his  play, 

And  in  these  solemn  periods  stalk'd  away  :  — 

"  Bless'd  were  the  fair  like  you  ;  her  faults  who  stopp'd 

And  closed  her  follies  when  the  curtain  dropp'd  ! 

No  more  in  vice  or  error  to  engage, 

Or  play  the  fool  at  large  on  life's  great  stage." 


NOTES. 


NOTES. 


FRONTISPIECE. 
PORTRAIT  OF  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN,  BY  JOHN  RUSSELL,  R.  A. 

THIS  portrait,  drawn  in  crayons  in  1788,  —  the  year  of  the  great  speech 
against  Warren  Hastings, — is  in  the  National  Portrait  Gallery  at  South 
Kensington,  and  is  here  reproduced  by  the  kind  permission  of  George 
Scharf,  Esq.,  F.  S.  A.,  the  keeper  of  that  collection.  So  far  as  known, 
it  has  not  been  engraved  hitherto.  The  familiar  portrait  by  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  was  painted  in  1789,  and  is  now  in  the  possession  of  Lord 
Kennaird,  of  Rossie  Priory.  Mr.  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan  of  Frampton 
Court,  Dorchester,  has  a  finely  finished  portrait  of  his  grandfather,  done 
in  pencil  by  Wright  of  Derby. 

THE   RIVALS. 
PREFACE. 

Faded  ideas  float  in  the  fancy  like  half-forgotten  dreams ;  and  the  imagination  in  its  fullest 
enjoyments  becomes  suspicious  of  its  offspring,  and  doubts  whether  it  has  created  or  adopted. 

This  passage  was  quoted  by  Burgoyne,  in  the  preface  of  the  '  Heiress.' 
The  same  thought  is  to  be  found  also  in  the  'Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast 
Table,'  where  Dr.  Holmes  says,  "  I  never  wrote  a  line  of  verse  that 
seemed  to  me  comparatively  good,  but  it  appeared  old  at  once,  and 
often  as  if  it  had  been  borrowed."  A  little  earlier  in  the  same  chapter, 
the  Autocrat  had  declared  the  law  which  governs  in  such  cases :  "  When 
a  person  of  fair  character  for  literary  honesty  uses  an  image  such  as 
another  has  employed  before  him,  the  presumption  is  that  he  has  struck 
upon  it  'independently,  or  unconsciously  recalled  it,  supposing  it  his 


320  THE  RIVALS. 

It  is  net  without  pleasure  that  I  catch  at  an  opportunity  of  justifying  myself  from  the  charge 
of  intending  any  national  reflection  in  the  character  of  Sir  Lucius  O' Trigger. 

In  his  '  Retrospections  of  the  Stage,'  John  Bernard,  who  was  present 
at  the  unfortunate  first  performance  of  the  '  Rivals,'  has  declared  that 
the  audience  was  indifferent  to  Sir  Lucius,  as  acted  by  Lee.  When 
the  play  was  revised,  Clinch  took  the  part.  Why  any  one  should  ob- 
ject to  Sir  Lucius,  it  is  now  difficult  to  discover.  Sir  Lucius  is  one  of 
the  best  of  stage-Irishmen,  and  he  is  emphatically  an  Irish  gentleman. 


ACT   I. 

SCENE  I. 

Thomas.  —  But  pray,  Mr.  Fag,  what  kind  of  a  place  is  this  Bath? 

It  is  not  easy  now  to  understand  fully  the  extraordinary  brilliancy  of 
Bath  after  Beau  Nash  had  organized  society  there.  The  manners  and 
customs  of  Bath,  as  they  were  a  very  few  years  before  the  date  of  the 
'  Rivals,'  may  be  seen  in  Anstey's  '  New  Bath  Guide,'  first  published  in 
1766;  and  Anstey's  lively  verses  prove  that  the  town  offered  unusual 
advantages  to  the  social  satirist  and  the  comic  dramatist.  In  '  Hum- 
phrey Clinker,'  Smollett  has  left  us  an  elaborate  description  of  the 
place  and  the  people  to  be  met  there.  Foote's  comedy,  the  '  Maid  of 
Bath,'  was  a  dramatic  setting  of  the  romantic  story  of  Miss  Linley, 
Sheridan's  wife.  . 

SCENE  II. 

Lydia.  —  And  could  not  you  get  The  Reward  of  Constancy  ? 

Miss  Lydia  Languish  seems  to  have  had  a  Catholic  taste  in  fiction. 
Most  of  the  books  she  sought  were  novelties :  the  '  Mistakes  of  the 
Heart'  and  the 'Tears  of  Sensibility'  were  translations  from  the  French, 
published  in  1773.  The  'Delicate  Distress'  and  the  'Gordian  Knot' 
had  been  published  together  in  four  volumes  in  the  same  year.  The 
'  Memoirs  of  a  Lady  of  Quality '  (i.  e.,  Lady  Vane)  were  included  in 
Smollett's  'Peregrine  Pickle,'  published  first  in  1751.  His  'Humphrey 
Clinker'  did  not  appear  till  1771.  The  'Sentimental  Journey'  had 
been  originally  published  in  1768,  in  two  volumes. 

Lydia.  —  Here,  my  dear  Lucy,  hide  these  books. 

Miss  Languish  was  evidently  fond  of  Smollett.  After  '  Peregrine 
Pickle,'  with  its  'Memoirs  of  a  Lady  of  Quality,"  and  after  'Hum- 


NOTES.  321 

phrey  Clinker,'  conies  Roderick  Random,'  published  in  1748.  The 
'Innocent  Adultery'  was  the  second  title  of  Southerners  tragedy,  the 
'  Fatal  Marriage,'  revived  as  '  Isabella ;  or,  the  Fatal  Marriage,'  for 
Mrs.  Siddons,  after  Sheridan  became  the  manager  of  Drury  Lane 
theatre.  A  century  ago  English  plays  were  read  as  French  plays  are 
still.  Henry  Mackenzie's  'Man  of  Feeling'  had  first  appeared  in 
1771.  Mrs.  Chapone's  'Letters  on  the  Improvement  of  the  Mind,' 
addressed  to  her  niece,  had  been  published  in  1773  in  two  volumes; 
and  Lord  Chesterfield's  'Letters,'  written  in  1768,  had  not  been  given 
to  the  world  until  1774.  From  notes  found  by  Moore,  we  know  that 
Sheridan  had  begun  to  draft  a  criticism  of  Lord  Chesterfield's  pre- 
cepts just  before  he  sat  down  resolutely  to  the  writing  of  this  play. 

Mrs.  Mai.  —  'Tis  safest  in  matrimony  to  begin  with  a  little  aversion. 

With  a  readiness  recalling  Sheridan's  own  promptness  in  repartee, 
George  Canning  quoted  this  assertion  of  Mrs.  Malapropos,  in  a  speech 
delivered  in  the  House  of  Commons  in  1825. 

Sir  Ant/tony.  —  Well,  I  must  leave  you. 

The  traditional  business  of  Sir  Anthony's  departure  requires  him  to 
bow  and  gain  the  door,  and  then  to  return  to  say  the  next  clause  as 
though  it  has  just  occurred  to  him.  This  leave-taking,  protracted  by 
Mrs.  Malapropos  elaborate  courtseys,  is  repeated  two  or  three  times 
before  Sir  Anthony  finally  takes  himself  off. 

Lucy.  —  And  a  black  paduasoy. 

Paduasoy  was  a  particular  kind  of  silk  stuff,  deriving  its  name 
from  the  Italian  town  Padua,  and  the  French  word  sole,  silk. 


ACT   II. 

SCENE  I. 

Fag.  —  I  beg  pardon,  sir  —  I  bsg  pardon  —  but,  with  submission,  a  lie  is  nothing  unless  one 
supports  it.  Sir,  whenever  I  draw  on  my  invention  for  a  good  current  lie,  1  always  forge 
indorsements  as  well  as  the  bill. 

This  use  of  mercantile  technicalities  was  not  uncommon  with 
Sheridan  ;  and  Fag's  idioms  may  be  compared  with  Sir  Peter  Teazle's 
declaration  ('School  for  Scandal,'  Act  II.,  Scene  II.)  that  he  "would 
have  law  merchant,"  for  those  who  report  what  they  hear,  so  that, 


322  THE  RIVALS. 

"in  all  cases  of  slander  currency,  whenever  the  drawer  of  the  lie 
was  not  to  be  found,  the  injured  parties  should  have  a  right  to 
come  on  any  of  the  indorsers." 

Enter  Faulkland. 

Faulkland  is  the  name  of  two  prominent  characters,  a  father  and 
a  son,  in  the  'Memoirs  of  Miss  Sidney  Biddulph,'  the  novel  written 
by  Mrs.  Frances  Sheridan ;  but  neither  of  them  in  any  way  resembles 
this  Faulkland  of  her  son's. 

Acres. —  My  hair  has  been  in  training  some  time. 

Here  Acres  removes  his  cap,  and  shows  his  side-curls  in  papers. 
After  his  next  speech,  he  turns  his  back  to  the  audience  to  show 
his  back-hair  elaborately  dressed. 

Acres.  —  Damns  have  had  their  day. 

In  his  'History  of  the  English  Stage'  (v.  461,)  the  Rev.  Mr.  Geneste 
quotes  an  epigram  of  Sir  John  Harrington's,  quite  pertinent  here:  — 

In  elder  times,  an  ancient  custom  was 

To  swear,  in  weighty  matters,  by  the  mass; 

But  when  the  mass  went  down,  as  old  men  note, 

They  sware,  then,  by  the  cross  of  this  same  groat ; 

And  when  the  cross  was  likewise  held  in  scorn, 

Then  by  their  faith  the  common  oath  was  sworn  ; 

Last  having  sworn  away  all  faith  and  troth,' 

Only  God  damn  them  is  their  common  oath. 

Thus  custom  kept  decorum  by  gradation, 

That  losing  mass,  cross,  faith,  they  find  damnation. 

Sir  AntAony.  —  \\hal's  that  to  you,  sir? 

The  alleged  likeness  of  Sir  Anthony  to  Smollett's  Matthew  Bramble 
is  very  slight  indeed.  Sheridan's  treatment  of  Sir  Anthony  in  this  scene 
and  in  the  contrasting  scene  in  the  next  act  is  exquisite  comedy.  In 
these  two  scenes  is  to  be  found  the  finest  writing  in  the  play.  The  present 
scene  may  be  compared  with  one  somewhat  similar  between  Mrs.  Linnet 
and  Miss  Linnet  in  the  first  act  of  Foote's  '  Maid  of  Bath.' 

Sir  Anthony.  —  Like  the  bull  in  Cox's  Museum. 

Cox's  Museum  was  a  popular  and  fashionable  exhibition  of  natural 
and  mechanical  curiosities.  There  are  many  allusions  to  it  in  contem- 
porary literature.  In  'Evelina,'  for  instance,  published  in  1778,  three 
years  after  the  '  Rivals '  was  written,  Miss  Burney  takes  her  heroine 


NOTES.  323 

to  Cox's  Museum  and  describes  some  of  the  many  marvels  it  must  have 
contained. 

SCENE  II. 

Pag.  —  We  will  —  we  will.     [Exeunt  severally.] 

The  traditional  business  here  is  for  Fag  to  parody  the  exit  of  Sir 
Lucius  just  before,  calling  Lucy,  kissing  her,  saying,  "  I  '11  quiet  your 
conscience,"  and  then  making  his  exit,  humming  the  tune  he  has  just 
caught  from  Sir  Lucius. 

ACT   III. 
SCENE  III. 

Mrs.  Mai.  —  Oh,  it  gives  me  the  hydrostatics  to  such  a  degree !  I  thought  she  had  per- 
sisted from  corresponding  with  him ;  but,  behold !  this  very  day,  1  have  interceded  another  letter 
from  the  fellow.  I  believe  I  have  it  in  my  pocket. 

Tradition    authorizes    Mrs.   Malaprop   first    to    take    from  her  pocket 

the  letter   of    Sir  Lucius,  and    then    discovering  her  mistake  to    produce 

with  much  difficulty  and  in  great  confusion  the    letter  which  Capt.  Abso- 
lute recognizes  at  once. 

Lydia.  —  O  Heavens!  Beverley! 

Lydia  Languish  has  been  called  a  second  edition  of  Colman's  Polly 
Honeycombe;  but  the  charge  has  only  the  slightest  foundation.  It  would 
have  been  more  difficult  to  evolve  Lydia  from  Polly  than  to  have  made 
her  out  of  nothing.  If  a  prototype  must  be  found  for  Lydia,  it  had 
better  be  sought  in  the  Niece  in  Steele's  'Tender  Husband.'  In 
Steele's  play,  the  relations  of  the  Aunt  and  the  Niece  are  not  unlike 
those  of  Mrs.  Malaprop  and  Lydia;  and  we  are  told  that  the  Niece 
"has  spent  all  her  solitude  in  reading  romances,  her  head  is  full  of 
shepherds,  knights,  flowery  meads,  groves,  and  streams  (Act  I.,  Scene 
I.).  And  she  anticipates  Lydia  in  thinking  that  "it  looks  so  ordinary, 
to  go  out  at  a  door  to  be  married.  Indeed  I  ought  to  be  taken  out 
of  a  window,  and  run  away  with  "  (Act  IV.,  Scene  I.).  It  may  be  noted, 
also,  that  the  lover  of  Steele's  airy  heroine  visits  her  in  disguise  and 
makes  love  to  her  before  the  face  of  the  Aunt. 

SCENE  IV. 

Acres  (practising  a  dancing  step.)  —  These  outlandish  heathen  allemandes  and  cotillons  are 
quite  beyond  me.  I  shall  never  prosper  at  'em,  that 's  sure.  Mine  are  true-born  English 
legs.  They  don't  understand  their  curst  French  lingo. 

In  his  '  History  of  the  English  Stage,'  Geneste  recalls  a  parallel  passage 
in  the  '  Wasps, '  of  Aristophanes,  where  the  old  man,  on  being  desired 


324  THE   RIVALS. 

to  put  on  a  pair  of  Lacedemonian  boots,  endeavors  to  excuse  himself 
by  saying  that  one  of  his  toes  is  a  sworn  enemy  to  the  Lacedemo- 
nians. 

Acres.  —  That 's  too  civil  by  half. 

In  the  writing  of  the  challenge  most  actors  of  Acres  indulge  in 
"gags"  beyond  the  bounds  of  all  decency,  and  until  comedy  sinks  into 
clowning.  Mr.  Joseph  Jefferson  refuses  to  make  the  judicious  grieve 
by  saying,  "to  prevent  the  confusion  that  might  arise  from  our  both 
undressing  the  same  lady,"  and  other  vulgarities  of  that  sort,  retaining, 
however,  the  subtler  jest  of  Acres' s  pause  and  hesitation  when  he 
comes  to  the  word  "company,"  of  his  significant  whisper  in  the  ear  of 
Sir  Lucius,  and  of  Sir  Lucius' s  prompt  solution  of  the  orthographical 
problem,  —  "  With  a  c,  of  course  !  " 


ACT   IV. 
SCENE   II. 

Mrs.  Malaprop.  —  Comparisons  don't  become  a  young  woman. 

Here  Mrs.  Malaprop  comes  very  near  to  Dogberry's  "comparisons 
are  odorous  "  ( '  Much  Ado  About  Nothing.'  Act  III.,  Scene  V.).  Per- 
haps the  earliest  use  of  the  phrase  is  in  'The  Posies  of  George 
Cascoigne'  (1575),  where  we  find,  "Since  all  comparisons  are  odious." 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. 

Fanlkland. — Julia,  I  have  proved  you  to  the  quick! 

Moore  considers  that  this  scene  was  suggested  by  Prior's  ballad  of 
the  'Nut-brown  Maid,'  and  so  indeed  it  may  have  been,  although 
Prior's  situation  is  very  different  from  Sheridan's.  In  the  'Nut-brown 
Maid,'  the  high-born  lover  conceals  his  rank,  approaches  his  mistress 
in  various  disguises,  and  at  last  tests  her  love  by  a  tale  of  murder, 
like  Faulklands.  She  stands  the  the  test  like  Julia.  Then  the  lover 
confesses  the  trick  and  .reveals  his  rank,  whereat  the  maid  is  joyful. 
The  point  of  Sheridan's  more  dramatic  situation  is  in  the  recoil  of  Faulk- 
iand's  distrustful  ingenuity  on  his  own  head,  and  the  rejection  of  his 
suit  by  Julia,  so  soon  as  he  declares  his  fraud. 


NOTES.  325 

Lydia.  —  How  often  have  I  stole  forth,  in  the  coldest  night  in  January,  and  found  him  in  the 
garden,  stuck  like  a  dripping  statue. 

In  his  notes  to  his  own  translation  of  Horace,  Sir  Theodore  Martin 
draws  attention  to  the  likeness  of  this  speech  of  Lydia's  to  the  lines  in 
the  Tenth  Ode  of  the  Third  Book,  in  which  Horace  adjures  a  certain 
Lyce  to  take  pity  on  him. 

You  would  pity,  sweet  Lyce,  the  poor  soul  that  shivers 
Out  here  at  your  door  in  the  merciless  blast. 

Only  hark  how  the  doorway  goes  straining  and  creaking, 

And  the  piercing  wind  pipes  through  the  trees  that  surround 

The  court  of  your  villa,  while  black  frost  is  streaking 
With  ice  the  crisp  snow  that  lies  thick  on  the  ground  ! 

Yet  be  not  as  cruel  —  forgive  my  upbraiding  — 

As  snakes,  nor  as  hard  as  the  toughest  of  oak; 
Think,  to  stand  out  here,  drenched  to  the  skin,  serenading 

All  night  may  in  time  prove  too  much  of  a  joke. 

SCENE  II. 

Absolute.  —  Really,  sir,  you  have  the  advantage  of  me. 

Captain  Absolute  is  the  son  of  a  long  line  of  light  and  lively  heroes 
of  comedy,  and  the  father  of  a  line  almost  as  long.  Foremost  among 
his  ancestors  is  the  inventive  protagonist  of  Foote's  '  Liar,'  and  foremost 
among  his  progeny  is  the  even  more  slippery  young  man  in  Mr.  Bouci- 
cault's  '  London  Assurance,'  who  ventures  to  deny  his  father  in  much 
the  same  fashion  as  Capt.  Absolute. 

SCENE  III. 

Acres.  —  By  my  valour ! 

By  a  hundred  devious  ways,  Bob  Acres  traces  his  descent  from  that 
other  humorous  coward,  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek;  and  the  duels  into 
which  both  gentlemen  enter  valiantly  are  not  without  a  certain  highly 
comic  resemblance. 

Sir  Lucius.  —  I  'm  told  there  is  very  snug  lying  in  the  Abbey. 

This  reference  is,  of  course,  to  the  Abbey  church,  at  Bath,  in  which 
Sarah  Fielding,  the  sister  of  the  novelist,  is  buried. 


326  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 


THE   SCHOOL   FOR   SCANDAL. 

ACT   I. 

SCENE  I. 

Lady  Sneer.  —  The  paragraphs,  you  say,  Mr.  Snake,  were  all  inserted. 

In  the  original  draft  of  this  scene,  now  in  the  possession  of  Mr. 
Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan  of  Frampton  Court,  Dorchester,  where  he 
kindly  permitted  me  to  examine  it,  the  person  with  whom  Lady  Sneer- 
well  is  conversing  is  a  Miss  Verjuice,  and  it  is  only  later  in  the  scene, 
after  the  entrance  of  Joseph  Surface,  that  we  find  a  reference  to  "  Snake, 
the  Scribbler."  In  revising  the  scene,  Sheridan  found  that  one  charac- 
ter might  suffice  for  the  minor  dirty  work  of  the  plot;  and  to  this 
character  he  gave  the  dialogue  of  Miss  Verjuice  and  the  name  of 
Snake.  The  name  Sneerwell  is  to  be  found  in  Fielding's  'Pasquin.' 

Servant.  —  Mr.  Surface. 

In  'A  Journey  to  Bath,'  an  unacted  and  unprinted  comedy  by  Mrs. 
Frances  Sheridan,  three  acts  of  which  are  preserved  in  the  British 
Museum  (MS.  25,  975),  there  is  a  Mrs.  Surface,  "one  who  keeps  a 
lodging-house  at  Bath."  She  is  no  relation  to  either  of  the  Surfaces 
in  the  '  School  for  Scandal ; '  yet  it  may  be  worth  noting  that  she  is  a 
scandal-monger  who  hates  scandal. 

SCENE  II. 

Rowley.  —  Oh,  Sir  Peter,  your  sen-ant! 

Rowley  is  one  of  the  many  faithful  stewards,  frequent  in  comedy. 
Perhaps  the  first  of  them  was  Trusty  in  Steele's  'Funeral.' 

ACT   II. 
SCENE  I. 

Sir  Peter.  —  And  three  powdered  footmen  before  your  chair. 

In  1777,  when  Sheridan  wrote,  only  people  of  the  highest  position 
and  fashion  made  their  footmen  powder  their  hair;  so  Sir  Peter  is  here 
reproaching  Lady  Teazle  with  her  exalted  ambitions. 


NOTES.  327 

Sir  Peter.  —  You  were  content  to  ride  double,  behind  the  butler  on  a  docked  coach-horse. 

Professor  Ward  in  his  '  History  of  English  Dramatic  Literature,'  draws 
attention  to  a  parallel  passage  in  Fletcher's  'Noble  Gentleman'  (Act  II., 
Scene  I.),  in  which  Marine  threatens  to  take  his  fashionable  wife  home 
again  :  — 

Make  you  ready  straight, 

And  in  that  gown  which  you  first  came  to  town  in, 
Your  safe-cloak,  and  your  hood  suitable, 
Thus  on  a  double  gelding  shall  you  amble, 
And  my  man  Jaques  shall  be  set  before  you.    • 

Sir  Peter.  —  Ay  —  there  again  —  taste !    Zounds !  madam,  you  had  no  taste  when  you  married  me ! 
It  seems  as  though  Mr.  John    G.  Saxe    may    have    remembered  this 
speech    of    Sir  Peter's   when    he    wrote    his    epigram,    '  Too  Candid  by 
Half:'  — 

As  Tom  and  his  wife  were  discoursing  one  day 
Of  their  several  faults,  in  a  bantering  way, 

Said  she:  'Though  my  wit  you  disparage, 
I'm  sure,  my  dear  husband,  our  friends  will  attest 
This  much,  at  the  least,  that  my  judgment  is  best.' 

Quoth  Torn :  '  So  they  said  at  our  marriage  ! ' 

SCENE  II. 

Sir  Benjamin  Backbite  :  — 

"Sure  never  were  seen  two  such  beautiful  ponies  1 
Other  horses  are  clowns,  but  these  macaronies. 
To  give  them  this  title  I  'm  sure  can't  ba  wrong, 
Their  legs  are  so  slim,  and  their  tails  are  so  long. 

The  reading  of  this  epigram  by  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite  is  perhaps 
another  of  Sheridan's  reminiscences  of  Moliere ;  at  least  there  is  a  situa- 
tion not  unlike  it  in  the  '  Precieuses  Ridicules,'  in  the  '  Femmes 
Savantes,'  and  in  the  '  Misanthrope.'  In  the  final  quarter  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  there  arose  a  species  of  dandy  called  the  macaroni, 
much  as  in  the  final  quarter  of  the  nineteenth  century  there  has  arisen 
a  variety  called  the  dude. 

"  The  Italians  are  extremely  fond  of  a  dish  they  call  macaroni,  com- 
posed of  a  kind  of  paste ;  and,  as  they  consider  this  the  summum 
bonum  of  all  good  eating,  so  they  figuratively  call  everything  they  think 
elegant  and  uncommon  macaroni.  Our  young  travellers,  who  generally 
catch  the  follies  of  the  countries  they  visit,  judged  that  the  title  of 
macaroni  was  applicable  to  a  clever  fellow ;  and,  accordingly,  to  distin- 
guish themselves  as  such,  they  instituted  a  club  under  this  denomination, 


328  THE   SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

the  members  of  which  were  supposed  to  be  the  standards  of  taste, 
They  make  a  most  ridiculous  figure,  with  hats  of  an  inch  in  the  brim, 
that  do  not  cover,  but  lie  upon,  the  head  ;  with  about  two  pounds  of 
fictitious  hair,  formed  into  what  is  called  a  club,  hanging  down  their 
shoulders,  as  white  as  a  baker's  sack"  ('Pocket-book,'  1773,  quoted 
in  Mr.  T.  L.  O.  Davies's  '  Supplementary  Glossary ' ).  The  name  of 
the  macaroni  is  also  preserved  in  the  first  stanza  of  our '  Yankee  Doodle/ 
which  is  almost  contemporaneous  with  Sheridan's  play. 

Sir  Peter.  —  A  character  dead  at  every  word,  I  suppose? 

Moore  noted  the  resemblance  of  this  aside  to  Pope's  line,  in  the 
'Rape  of  the  Lock':  — 

At  every  word,  a  reputation  dies. 

This  scandal  scene  of  Sheridan's  had  predecessors  in  the  comedies 
of  Congreve  and  of  Wycherley,  not  to  go  back  as  far  as  the  '  Misan- 
thrope '  of  Moliere.  Hard  and  cruel  as  Sheridan's  scene  now  seems  to 
us,  it  is  gentle  indeed  when  contrasted  with  the  cudgel-play  of 
Congreve  and  Wycherley.  It  is  possible  that  Sheridan  owed  some  of 
his  comparative  suavity  to  the  example  of  Addison,  who  contributed  to 
No.  17  of  the  Spectator,  a  'Fine  Lady's  Journal,'  in  which  there  is  a 
passage  of  tittle-tattle  more  like  Sheridan  than  Wycherley  or  Congreve. 

Sir  Peter.  —  Yes,  madam,  I  would  have  law  merchant  for  them  too. 

Geneste,  in  his  '  History  of  the  English  Stage,'  draws  attention  to  a 
parallel  passage  in  the  '  Trinummus '  of  Plautus,  and  suggests  that  it 
would  furnish  a  very  pat  motto  for  this  play :  — 

Puod  si  exquiratur  usque  ab  stirpe  auctoritas, 
Unde  quicquid  auditum  dicant.  nisi  id  appareat. 
Famigeratori  res  sit  euro  damno  et  malo: 
Hoc  ita  si  fiat,  publico  fiat  bono. 
Pauci  sint  faxim,  qui  sciant  quod  nesciunt; 
Occlusioremque  habeant  stultiloquentiam. 


ACT  III. 
SCENE  I. 

5/>  Peter.  —  But,  Moses !  would  not  you  have  him  ran  out  a  little  against  the  Annuity  Bill  ? 

In  1777  a  committee  of  the  House  of  Commons  was  appointed  to 
inquire  into  the  laws  concerning  usury  and  annuities ;  and  on  its  report 
in  May,  the  month  in  which  this  play  was  first  acted,  a  bill  was  brought 


NOTES.  329 

in    and    passed,  providing   that   all   contracts   with    minors  for  annuities 

shall   be   void,    and    that    those   procuring   them    and    solicitors  charging 

more  than  ten  shillings  per  cent   shall    be    subject   to   fine  or  imprison- 
ment. 

Sir  Peter.  —  No,  never ! 

The  traditional  business  of  the  scene  is  for  Sir  Peter  and  Lady 
Teazle  here  to  take  each  other  by  the  hand  and  to  repeat,  in  unison, 
"  Never  !  never  !  never  !  " 

SCENE  II. 

Trip.  —  And  find  our  own  bags  and  bouquets. 

In  the  original  draft  of  the  several  scenes  which  Sheridan  finally 
combined  into  the  'School  for  Scandal,'  this  phrase,  'bags  and  bou- 
quets,' was  said  to  Sir  Peter  as  he  was  complaining  of  Lady  Teazle's 
extravagances.  This  utilization  at  last  of  a  phrase  at  first  rejected 
elsewhere  is  highly  characteristic  of  Sheridan. 

Trip.  —  Or  you  shall  have  the  reversion  of  the  French  velvet. 

Sheridan  has  been  accused,  justly  enough,  of  making  his  servants 
talk  as  their  masters;  but  this  is  an  old  failing  of  writers  of  comedy, 
although  few  of  them  would  have  risked  this  accurate  use  of  the  legal 
phraseology  which  Sheridan  at  all  times  affected.  But  there  is  in  Ben 
Jonson's  'Every  Man  in  his  Humor'  (Act  III.,  Scene  II.)  a  speech  of 
Knowetfs  servant  B  rainworm  in  which  we  find  the  very  same  technical 
term  as  we  have  in  the  text :  "  This  smoky  varnish  being  washed  off, 
and  three  or  four  patches  removed,  I  appear  your  worship's  [servant} 
in  reversion,  after  the  decease  of  your  good  father,  Brain-worm."  Sheri- 
dan's Trip  and  Fag  recall  the  amusing  personages  of  '  High  Life  below 
Stairs,'  generally  attributed  to  a  certain  Reverend  James  Townley,  but 
more  probably  the  work  of  David  Garrick :  it  was  suggested  by  a  paper 
of  Steele's,  '  On  Servants,'  in  the  Spectator,  No.  88. 

SCENE  III. 

Sir  Harry  Bumper — Sings. 

It  has  been  asserted  (in  Notes  and  Queries  5th  S.,  ii.,  245,  and 
elsewhere)  that  Sheridan  derived  this  song  from  a  ballad  in  Suckling's 
play,  the  '  Goblins ;'  but  a  careful  comparison  of  the  two  songs  shows 
that  there  is  really  no  foundation  for  the  charge.  The  music  to  Sheri- 
dan's song  was  composed  by  his  father-in-law,  Thomas  Linley,  who  had 
been  his  partner  in  the  '  Duenna.' 


330  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

Moses.  —  Oh,  pray,  sir,  consider!  Mr.  Premium  's  a  gentleman. 

In  Foote's  '  Minor,'  there  is  a  spendthrift  son,  whose  father  visits 
him  in  disguise  to  test  him;  and  in  Foote's  'Author,'  a  father  re- 
turns in  disguise,  and,  to  his  great  delight,  hears  his  son  disclose  the 
most  admirable  sentiments ;  but  there  is  no  real  likeness  between 
either  of  Foote's  scenes  and  this  of  Sheridan's,  the  real  original  of 
which  is  perhaps  to  be  found  in  his  mother's  '  Sidney  Biddulph,'  in 
which  an  East  Indian  uncle  returns  to  test  a  nephew  and  a  niece.  Yet 
there  is  possibly  a  slight  resemblance  between  "little  Premium  the 
broker,"  and  "little  Transfer,  the  broker,"  in  the  "Minor."' 

Moses.  —  Oh,  yes;    I'll  swear  to  't! 

An  erring  tradition  authorizes  Moses  to  interpolate  freely  and  fre- 
quently throughout  the  rest  of  the  scene  a  more  or  less  meaningless, 
"  I  '11  take  my  oath  of  that."  As  the  part  of  Moses  is  generally  taken 
by  the  low  comedian  who  also  appears  as  Tony  Lumpkin,  this  "  gag " 
may  be  a  reminiscence  of  the  comic  scene  in  '  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,' 
in  which  Tony  offers  to  swear  to  his  mother's  assertion  that  Miss  Hard- 
castle's  jewels  have  been  stolen. 

ACT   IV. 
SCENE  I. 

Charles,  —  But  come,  get  to  your  pulpit,  Mr.  Auctioneer 

The  absurdity  of  an  auction  with  only  one  bidder  has  been  com- 
mented upon  often,  but  surely  Sheridan  never  intended  the  -auction  to 
be  taken  seriously.  The  pretence  of  an  auction  is  surely  a  freak  of 
Charles's  humor  and  high  spirits. 

Charles.  —  Well,  here's  my  great  uncle,  Sir  Richard  Raveline. 

The  '  School  for  Scandal '  was  one  of  the  plays  performed  by  the 
English  actors  on  their  famous  visit  to  Paris  in  1827,  —  a  visit  which 
revealed  the  might  and  range  of  the  English  drama  to  the  French,  and 
thereby  served  to  make  possible  the  Romanticist  revolt  of  1830.  Victor 
Hugo  was  an  assiduous  follower  of  the  English  performances ;  and  it 
may  be  that  this  scene  of  the  '  School  for  Scandal '  suggested  to  him 
the  scene  with  the  portraits  in  '  Hernani.' 

SCENE  II. 

Charles.  —  Be  just  before  you  're  generous. 

In   a   note   to   an  anonymous  pamphlet  biographical  sketch  of  Sheri- 


NOTES.  331 

dan,  published  in  1799,  there  is  quoted  a  remark  of  a  lady  which  is 
not  without  point  and  pertinency :  "  Mr.  Sheridan  is  a  fool  if  he  pays 
a  bill  (of  which,  by  the  by,  he  is  not  accused)  of  one  of  the  trades- 
men who  received  his  comedy  with  such  thunders  of  applause.  He 
ought  to  tell  them  in  the  words  of  Charles,  that  he  could  never  make 
Justice  keep  pace  with  Generosity,  and  they  could  have  no  right  to 
complain." 

SCENE  III. 

Joseph.  —  Stay,  stay;  draw  that  screen  before  the  windows! 

It  has  been  often  objected  that  the  hiding  of  Lady  Teazle  behind 
the  screen  put  her  in  full  view  of  the  opposite  neighbor,  the  maiden 
lady  of  so  curious  a  temper;  but  it  must  be  remembered  that  it  is 
Joseph  who  makes  this  remark  and  has  the  screen  set,  and  it  is  Lady 
Teazle  who  unwittingly  rushes  to  hide  behind  it. 

Joseph.  —  Ah,  my  dear  madam,  there  is  the  great  mistake.    'T  is  this  very  conscious  innocence 
that  is  of  the  greatest  prejudice  to  you. 

The  late  Abraham  Hay  ward,  in  his  '  Selected  Essays '  (i,  400), 
calls  this  "  the  recast  of  a  fine  reflection  in  '  Zadig,' "  and  quotes,  in 
a  foot-note,  Voltaire's  words :  "  Astartd  est  femme,  elle  laisse  parler 
ses  regards  avec  d'autant  plus  d'  imprudence  qu'elle  ne  se  croit  pas 
encore  coupable.  Malheureusement  rassuree  sur  son  innocence,  elle 
neglige  les  dehors  necessaires.  Je  tremblerai  pour  elle  tant  qu'  elle 
n'  aura  rien  k  se  reprocher." 

Charles  Surface  throws  down  the  screen. 

Boaden,  the  biographer  of  Kemble,  has  the  hyper-ingenuity  to  dis- 
cover in  the  fall  of  the  rig  in  Molly  Seagrini's  bedroom,  disclosing  the 
philosopher  Square,  in  'Tom  Jones,'  the  first  germ  of  the  fall  of  the 
screen  in  the  '  School  for  Scandal.' 

Sir  Peter.  —  Lady  Teazle,  by  all  that 's  damnable  1 

Nowadays  most  Sir  Peters  take  this  situation  to  heart  as  though 
the  '  School  for  Scandal '  were  a  tragedy,  but  the  play  is  a  comedy, 
and  this  scene  is,  and  is  meant  to  be,  comic,  and  not  tragic,  or  even 
purely  pathetic.  It  is  the  vanity  rather  than  the  honor  of  Sir  Peter 
in  which  he  feels  the  wound.  If  he  is  as  deeply  moved  as  Othello, 
the  following  speech  of  Charles  is  unspeakably  heartless  and  brutal  — 
and  so,  indeed,  it  is,  as  it  is  delivered  by  most  comedians. 


332  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCAXDAL. 

ACT    V. 

SCENE  I. 

Sir  Oliver.  —  What !  has  he  never  transmitted  to  you  bullion  —  rupees  —  pagodas? 

The  rupee  and  the  pagoda  were  coins  current  in  Hindustan.  The 
rupee  is  of  silver  and  is  equivalent  to  about  two  shillings  sterling. 
The  pagoda  was  either  gold  or  silver,  and  its  value  varied  from  eight 
to  nine  shillings  sterling.  The  avadavats  mentioned  in  an  earlier  speech 
are  birds  of  brilliant  plumage. 

SCENE   II. 

Sir  Benjamin.  —  By  a  thrust  in  segoon  quite   through  his  left  side. 

"  Segoon "  is  a  corruption  of  segunde,  the  Spanish  form  of  the 
French  fencing  term  seconde.  Mr.  Walter  Herries  Pollock  kindly  gave 
me  this  information,  sought  elsewhere  in  vain.  A  thrust  in  segoon,  he 
writes,  is  "  a  thrust  delivered  low,  under  the  adversary's  blade,  with 
the  hand  in  the  tierce  position,  that  is,  with  the  knuckles  upwards,  and 
the  wrist  turned  downwards.  The  parry  is  now  more  frequently  used 
than  is  the  thrust  of  seconde,  and  is  especially  valuable  in  disarming ;  but 
the  thrust  is  very  useful  in  certain  cases,  and  particularly  for  one  form 
of  the  coup  d*  arret.  A  lunge  in  seconde  which  goes  through  the  lung  is 
nowadays  an  odd  thing  to  hear  of ;  but  such  a  result  might  come  from 
the  blade  of  the  man  using  the  thrust  in  seconde  being  thrown  upwards 
by  a  slip  on  the  adversary's  blade,  arm,  or  shirt." 

Craltree.  —  From  Salthill,  where  he  had  been  to  see  the  Montem. 

The  Montem  was  a  triennial  ceremony  of  the  boys  at  Eton,  abolished 
only  in  1847.  It  consisted  of  a  procession  to  a  mound  (ad  monteni) 
near  the  Bath  Road,  where  they  exacted  money  from  those  present  and 
from  all  passers-by.  The  sum  collected,  sometimes  nearly  ^1000,  went 
to  the  captain  or  senior  scholar,  and  served  to  pay  his  expenses  at 
the  university.  There  is  an  interesting  account  of  the  Montem  in 
'  Coningsby.' 

Crabtree.  —  Who  was  just  coming  to  the  door  with  a  double  letter  from  Northamptonshire. 

Tradition  formerly  authorized  Mrs.  Candour  to  interpolate  here  a 
query  as  to  whether  the  postage  had  been  paid  or  not ;  but  this  seems 
to  be  carrying  the  joke  a  little  too  far. 


NOTES.  333 

SCENE  III. 

Snake.  —  Ah,  sir,  consider  I  live  by  the  badness  of  my  character. 

In  the  first  draft  of  the  play  this  speech  of  Snake's  was  in  one  of 
the  earliest  scenes.  The  anonymous  writer  of  a  pamphlet,  '  Letter  to 
Thomas  Moore,  Esq.,  on  the  subject  of  Sheridan's  "  School  for  Scan- 
dal"' (Bath,  1826),  declares  that  "this  is  but  boyish  composition,  and 
quite  too  broad  even  for  farce.  It  might  have  been  said  to  Snake  by 
another,  but  is  out  of  even  stage-nature  or  stage-necessity,  as  coming 
from  himself "  (p.  16). 


EPILOGUE. 

So  wills  our  virtuous  bard  the  motley  Bayes. 

Bayes  was  the  hero  of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham's  '  Rehearsal,'  and 
was  a  caricature  of  John  Dryden.  At  the  time  this  epilogue  was  written 
the  '  Rehearsal '  had  not  yet  been  driven  from  the  stage  by  the 
'  Critic.' 

Spadille — odd  trick —  pam  —  basto  —  king  and  queen. 

In  the  game  of  ombre,  at  its  height  when  Pope  wrote  the  '  itape  of 
the  Lock,'  and  still  surviving  when  Colman  wrote  this  epilogue,  "  Spa- 
dille "  was  the  ace  of  spades,  "  pam "  was  the  knave  of  clubs,  and 
"  basto  "  was  the  ace  of  clubs. 


A     000020926 


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